TERRY

I suppose I might be forgiven for not reacting immediately in this case. In the aftermath of my confession to Uma, I was emotionally drained, but on a cathartic high. For several days we simply took it easy and let the trauma and revelations sink in, bring us closer and try to return to our normal mundane life together. I felt happier than I ever remember being. She was tender and loving but also becoming more and more dependent on me. Actually Tink was feeling a bit crook during those days and allowed her fragile side to show more and more. There were lots of quiet and intimate nights. Private and special. I'm not going to talk about them.

But eventually, my mind started its usual scrutiny. I have this facility for homing in on anything that does not appear to meld with everything else. A chance remark in which something is out of place runs though my mind endlessly until I can find an explanation. This time I was slow...really slow. The evidence had been staring me in the face. First there was that odd little diary she wrote about her afternoon with Lachlan. It had been some sort of a lark, play acting fantasy, the sort of thing she often does with the Brothers, but the adventure took a wrong turn somewhere and she said some very peculiar things. I thought I understood at the time but the more I dwelled on it, the more I wasn't sure. Uneasiness prickled for a while but with all the other more pressing events- moving house, playing happy families, Dino's visit and the subsequent revelations- I had let things slide.

The first real breakthrough occurred when I flew to the States, on the way to New York. I was dozing on the plane when a comment of Uma's just floated across my mind.

'For your demons uplift you to nobility and mine lower me to the dregs of life. I have to keep the myth before those I love that I am someone worthy of their love. The truth is, Terry, I am not. And if you knew then you would recoil in horror at the trap in which I had caught you. Leave me my fictions and my fantasies and keep your own illusions about me a while longer. Please.'

I sat up sharply, so fast that my knee hit the table before me and the glass of Scotch tumbled onto my lap. Carol ran up and proceeded to mop me up with a hand towel. I protested that I could do it myself but she seemed keen to carry on stroking my groin. It took me a while to extricate myself from her clutches, go back and find a change of pants and settle back down again to think. What had she meant? Uma wasn't an angel, I knew that, and must have had countless affairs with men in her past. I wasn't interested, frankly. A woman's past is of no interest to me; I do not judge anybody by the mistakes or missed chances before I met them. It would be pretty rich for me to make comments on others, with my pathetic track record.

Tink has never actually talked much about her life before the game. She talks incessantly about life in general and there have been plenty of anecdotes, many of them hilarious, about her unashamed exploits as a younger woman, but in point of fact with her usual facility, she has revealed very little in terms of a narrative. I actually knew next to nothing about her, although we never stopped talking about our former lives. I am usually very good at worming things out of people, am famed for my leading questions and rapier-like cut to the quick comments. But I had met my match in this lady.

OK. Let's find out about you then, Ummidia. Born Manchester, UK. I know her date of birth but I never tell on ladies. I also know her real name but I'll refrain from revealing that, if you don't mind. Educated by nuns, good student, scholarship to a premier university in London, MA in Classics. That takes her to about age 23. She had been a teacher for the past eight years, mostly in the north of England but for a while in SE Asia on a contract. That is where I met her. That's it. I am missing about two years of her life somewhere here. What did she do after Uni and before teaching? Where did she live before returning to the North?

I pondered that for some time whilst other stray comments played catch-me-if-you-can in my brain.

'I don't really play the Game quite like others do, either, for I have my own demons, and they eat at my soul, too. I don't need to invent them just for sport.'

Heavy stuff. A few sour love affairs wouldn't have had that effect on her. She is tougher than that. Something else bothering her. Something was worrying her much more than that. Think, Terry, think. Anything else she said? Then I heard something in my head. It wasn't actually anything she had said but just a question that didn't quite fit. I had ignored it at the time, deep in my own memory, but now I felt it hovering around on the edges of my consciousness.

"What was it called?"

"Can't remember. Yeah...Purple Rain...after the song...paid a girl to lap dance. She offered me more. I had a hard on. Said how much. She said a hundred quid. I took her out back. Pushed her face against the dressing room wall and fucked her. I was rough. She said...that'll cost more...I gave her two hundred. She was more than happy.

"What was her name?"

Why had she asked that? Why did the girl's name matter to the story I was telling? A cold dread seized my gut. She had jumped on the name of the club, too, another irrelevance in the narrative. Warning bells sounded. This was significant. Really significant.

Dino and I had a long day at the office listening to report backs from a string of guys home from points north, south, east and west. Feels strange to be the boss sitting and listening to their censored reports and trying to figure out the real story behind the measured and terse debrief. Felt a little frustrated. Had a sudden urge to be out there and playing the game again. How long will this hiatus last? I know I'm on the fringes of boredom with the corporate lifestyle and want to feel the adrenalin rush again. Come on Terry, don't blow it again. Not this time. Not now when you have it in your hands... Is that what is happening to Tink? Second thoughts? Getting bored? Wondering whether she has made a mistake now it's too late to change things?...

"Terry? I said what do you think of Raube? You reckon he fouled up? Want me to get some background...speak to the contacts on the street?

"Huh?" I had drifted off. Dino was talking to me and I had blanked him out. I never do that.

"You listening? Man...what is your problem? If I'm boring you, just say so," Dino was tetchy; he must have been tired too. We had been in that conference room for five hours already.

"Sorry, mate...just lost my place. Run it by me again." I smiled stiffly and took a sip of water.

"Is she all right? Nothing has happened? Everything going smoothly?...If you'd rather resume this some other time...?"

"Who?" I feigned ignorance but understood his question well enough.

"Shit, Terry. I know you. It's always a woman. And there's only one who's going to knock you off your stride at the moment. Uma. She OK?"

"Yeah. She's fine. Blooming with health." I smiled again but didn't make eye contact. Mistake.

"So...she's as pretty as a picture. I know that. Is she OK? Are you OK? Terry...either talk or tell me to fuck off. But don't play games with me. Got that?"

I sat back heavily in the leather seat and ran my hands over my hair. This time I caught his eye. "She's keeping something from me. I have a clue. Should I go digging?"

Dino raised his eyebrows and whistled. Without a word, he stood up and poured two slugs of malt. "Here." He handed me one and I drained the glass, grimacing slightly as the heat burned my throat. "What clue?"

I coughed, lit up, played with the packet of cigarettes, thought hard. "She's hurting. Something in her past... I think it might be to do with the sex industry."

Dino swung around in his chair and turned to stare out of the office window, panoramic view of the city skyline, late November gloom. "Can't see Uma as a glamour model somehow- hasn't the bazookas for it." His attempt at levity was typical Dino, shock tactics to shake me from moroseness.

"This is not a fucking joke," I snapped back. He twirled around in his chair.

"I know." He sat forward and joined his fingertips in that oddly professorial manner of his. "What are you thinking of? Stripping? Pole dancing? Turning tricks?"

I pouted at his abrupt comment, sparing me nothing. He was telling me he wasn't interested in my evasiveness and word games. Tell me or don't- spit it out, Terry.

"I don't know...why would she do any of that?" I heard the desperate edge in my voice and willed it to settle down.

Dino chewed on that while. "Uma's a high roller. Girl wants nice things. Easy money. Come on Terry, you know the name of the game. Or maybe she wanted to find out. You know how curious she is. Johns would love her...that wildness and the innocent look..."

"Fuck you."

"Face it, Terry. If you are right, that is."

"I'm right. Have I ever been wrong?"

He laughed. "Yeah...you've been wrong- plenty of times. But...she could have been feeding a habit. Mac likes to play with the old illegal substances, as you know..."

"No. Thought of that. She flirts with a joint or the occasional pill...cocaine now and again when she thinks I don't know...but that isn't someone who has had a serious habit. If she'd kicked it she wouldn't be doing anything. Money...I don't know..."

We sat in silence. "Does it matter?" Dino broke the deadlock. "Past is past."

"It doesn't matter. Not unless it fucks her head up. Then it matters."

"And you think it has?" I shrugged. He sighed.

"Two options, pal. You let this go and make it your business to keep her happy. At a time like this she needs your support and reassurance. Or you go sniffing around and you find out things you don't want to know- and she will hate you for it. Leave it, Terry. You two are in a very special place. Don't fuck it up now. Please."

I listened. Drank another shot. Stood up and walked around, pacing, thinking, weighing up what he had said, while Dino sat and observed me.

"If she was your woman...what would you do?"

"She isn't."

"What would you do?"

"You know what I would do."

I walked out of the office and took a cab back to my hotel. I had had enough for one day.

Lachlan flew me back to UK. I joined him in the cockpit. Phil was taking a break. "How's things?" Curry asked idly as I belted up next to him.

"OK."

He looked across at me. "Then why are you here? Look, mate, you have got 'I am suffering' written all over your mug. What's up? Uma? She OK? Nothing's happened has it?"

"She's fine. Look, tell me something. What did you think about her little bizarre act when you and she played Flyboy and Little Bo Peep the other week?"

He suddenly seemed absorbed in the control panel. "What do you mean?"

"Don't shit me, mate. You saw it and so did everyone who read that diary. What do you reckon she was on about?"

"I don't know. Maybe she's upset about you...I don't know, Terry. Wish I did."

I rubbed my hand over my face and missed my beard; it had felt oddly comforting. A new nervous gesture for Tink to complain about. "You think she fucked for money?"

He spun round. "NO!" His answer came a little too fast.

"Then you do. Why would she do that?"

"I said no - Uma is not that kind of woman..." he insisted. Curry couldn't handle this.

"They are all that kind of woman given the right- or wrong- push. I want to know the truth."

"Leave her alone. What possible good will it do you to go meddling in the past?"

"I was thinking of what good it might do her. This is not about me. I can handle it. There's nothing that she has done that will bother me. I love her. I know her ...better than you do, mate..."

"Have you considered that this might be something that shows you don't know her as well as you think you do? Are you ready for that? Maybe she fears that you'll find out she's not the woman that you know..."

"Fuck you."

"Then don't ask for my opinion. If I were you I wouldn't go there. She's highly strung and emotional these days. Maybe if you spent more time with her instead of being the world traveller and servicing your troop of girlfriends then she wouldn't have the time for all this..."

"Thanks for your help, mate. Appreciate it. Perhaps you would prefer to move into my bed, seeing as you are such a fucking expert on my woman..."

"You can be a stupid bastard when you want to be, can't you? Look, I don't know what was up with her. But I know that if she made a mistake then that's her affair and we have no right to push her on that one. You are no saint, mate. Bloke who would sleep with a client's wife when the sorry bastard has been kidnapped? At least street walking is an ancient profession..."

I jumped out of the seat. "You are fucking lucky, lucky, lucky that youre flying my fucking jet, mate. Correct me if I am wrong but that sad little film of yours was all about adultery with another pilot's wife, wasn't it? Or did I misunderstand the half baked plot?"

I stormed out, knocked into Carol carrying up two cups of coffee and sent them flying. I didn't apologise. Curry and I didn't speak on landing.

Back home, we settled to our idyllic existence. Tink was delighted that I was back. Bud had only stayed a few days and since then she seemed to have been very lonely, and fussed constantly over me. Unlike her? You would be surprised. She can switch from extremely clingy to fiery independence at the drop of a hat. But she does coo. She just hates that anyone ever finds out what a romantic she really is.

But I was alert and watching. Nothing was showing. I asked a few questions and got nowhere. One day I sat in my office and thought long and hard. With a sudden surge of energy, I slid back my chair, told my secretary that I was going home for the rest of the day and stormed out of the place. What the fuck did anyone else know? This was my girl and I knew what was best for her.

An hour later, I was standing outside a club called 'NOITATPMET'. Took me a while to figure that one out. The place had changed immeasurably from my last visit. Gone the seedy red light, greasy old man pulling in the punters at the door and faded pictures of nude women on posters flapping mournfully in the evening drizzle. The sex industry had a new lease of life. It was now mainstream and respectable, just like any nightclub or bar. The entrance was a sheet of curved aluminium devoid of any advertisement but the discreet name embossed into the surface. A bouncer in a dinner jacket was lurking at the entrance and stepped forward briskly as I entered.

"Yes, sir?"

He was a big guy, Jamaican, shaved head and malevolently handsome. I smiled coldly, gave him the professional appraisal. "I'd like to speak to the owner."

"We don't open this early. Come back after dark."

"I'm not here for the show." I went for my inside pocket, he made a move forward, I sidestepped and held out my wallet with my fingertips, smiling mockingly at him. "My card."

He scowled and dragged it from me, peering at it and frowning. "You some kind of copper?"

"Yes." I had given him Interpol ID. So I carry a few fakes with me? So sue me. 

"Wait here."

He disappeared along the stark white corridor padding along heavy footed on the plush carpet. Despite his bulk I could take him easily. Too slow. Several girls passed by, gave me a grin and walked in, their hips noticeably swinging more as they passed my field of vision. Pretty girls, fresh faced and natural, dressed in joggers and short little T-shirts under hooded sports jackets, track shoes on their dainty feet. Give them a few hours and they would turn themselves into sex kittens in spangled G-strings and pouting lips. I felt the loosening sensation in my gut again.

"Mrs. Sinclair will see you now." The bouncer was back, jerked his hand for me to follow him and I was led inside.

Classy joint. Not what I remembered at all. Sleek steel fixtures, leather couches, comfortable easy chairs. Small stage, aluminium poles, subdued but flattering lighting, lots of intimate bays. I was taken to a small office up a staircase at the side of the bar. Inside was a woman. She rose as I entered and I felt her assessment- it was as professional as any I could have given in my own capacity.

"Yvonne Sinclair." She extended a manicured hand. It was a firm but cool grip. "Your card says Terrence Thorne, Security Advisor to Interpol. What exactly does that mean?"

Mrs. Sinclair was a very attractive woman. I would have put her age around late thirties but I suspect that she was actually older and very well maintained. She was a tall woman, slender but full bosomed, wearing a green satin blouse, tight black tailored skirt and revealing the best pair of pins I've seen in a long time. Her skin was tawny, slightly Mediterranean colour, her hair black and shiny, cut in a straight fringed bob, her eyes were dark brown and as expressionless as a lizard on a rock.  I noticed her mouth, narrow lipped and taut. It spoiled the illusion of beauty and revealed the hard core of a woman with a stone in the place of her heart- at least where men were concerned anyway. I vaguely wondered whether she had children and suspected that if she did she would be an entirely different person. A she wolf with her cubs. But today with me she was waiting and giving nothing away.

"Exactly what it says. I advise Interpol on matters of international security."

Her perfectly shaped right eyebrow raised quizzically. "Oh really? So what brings you to my humble club? Looking for urban terrorists with a taste for the exotic?"

I gave her a smile. It failed to make an impression. "I am looking for information about a woman who used to work here some years ago..."

"Bit of a long time to be carrying a hard on for one of my girls, love."  Her accent was false- feigned Essex over a more cultured voice. She leaned over the desk, revealed a little more cleavage, and opened an ornate box. "Cigarette?" I shook my head; she lit up and blew smoke in my direction.

"This is an official matter. The woman we seek was possibly working here twelve years ago...I don't suppose you have any contacts with the club as it was then? Purple Rain?"

She looked a little surprised for a moment and then concealed it behind her polished veneer. "You suppose wrong. I was here then. Not the owner, you understand, but as a working girl...who are you looking for?"

I gave the name and she shrugged. "Never heard of her." She turned away.

"Maybe this might jog your memory?" I handed her a snap of Uma that I had taken on the cruise. She was sitting on a rock on a white sand beach, dressed in a sarong, her hair tousled, her face blush with the sun.

Sinclair looked at me, a slight smile on her face and then took the photograph. A quick glance and she handed it back. "Roxy...Roxanne...Jesus...what the fuck has Roxy done now?"

Roxanne. Sting's song about a whore. Should have guessed.

"Yes, Roxy worked here for about two years...she came in one day wanting to be a stripper but, although she could dance, she was too skinny. But she begged and pleaded and we let her lap dance and surprise, surprise she was very popular."

"What did you know about her?"

She shrugged. "She was a university student. In debt. Lots of educated girls do it. Why not? Why should beautiful women give it away to men for free?" her eyes caught mine in a challenge.

I paused and restrained the urge to comment on what might be the reason. "How much did you know of her acquaintances? Did she have a lover? Was he handling her?"

The woman looked at me curiously. "Pimp? I don't allow pimps. My girls are dancers. If they do some private business...up to them. I get no cut. This is not a brothel. And I knew little about her. The girls often don't even tell us their names. They earn cash in hand. Live a respectable life in the real world and we keep their secrets. Lots of them go on to hold responsible jobs later."

I laughed sardonically. "You do a real social service here, Mrs. Sinclair, I am most impressed. That all you can tell me? What was she like?"

"Roxy? Nice girl. Bit crazy, moody...but reliable. Worked hard, got on with everyone but...remote. A part of her was somewhere else. She didn't socialise with us. Her only friend was Molly. She was another student. They seemed to share a few secrets."

"Molly?"

"Catherine Morant...she still drops me a postcard at Christmas. She's a research scientist for the MoD now. Amazing." All the while, Mrs. Sinclair had been rooting through a box of old photographs that she had pulled out of a cupboard. She smiled and handed me one. "We did a Tarts' day out to Brighton once. The two of them. On the pier."

I looked at the old photograph. My heart lurched and I began to understand what it must be like for the Sisters to see the younger incarnations of us older men. There was Uma, hair very long, a wild thick profusion, dyed a garish red, her face still with the softer roundness of her teenage years, her body girlish slim but less sleek- obviously before the starvation diet fads of current notions of beauty. If I had met her that day on a beach on a hot summer's day- what would we have made of each other? God only knows.

Then my eye was caught by the other woman. Taller and more striking- a Nordic blonde type with piercing blue eyes and a statuesque Goddess shape. Made Uma look even more young and girlish by comparison. They had their arms round each other and were laughing. Molly and Roxy. Catherine and Uma. Christ, I knew that girl. She was the one. It took me all of my self-control to remain stony faced, but my hand shook slightly, giving me away. I wondered if Sinclair noticed it.

"Thank you for your time. Tell me...why did Roxy leave?"

Mrs. Sinclair stubbed out her cigarette and sat back in her chair, crossing her legs and letting her skirt ride up to give a tantalising glimpse of the sweet curve of her upper thigh. She was offering. I wasn't buying. "She got into a bit of a mess. Some bastard worked her over. Frankly she had got wilder. Taking chances. Pick up a punter here, we are around to keep an eye. But she wanted danger. Drinking at the bars of top hotels. Picking up rich guys, celebs; in the end she got herself in with some real crazy guy. He beat her up, put her in the hospital. She was OK but she never came back. Molly said she took up teaching and turned straight. Obviously not for long. What's she done now?"

I smiled professionally, eyes untouched by the muscle movement. "Classified."

Mrs Sinclair stared at me. "Hmmm. Somehow I am getting quite a different vibe, Mr. Thorne. But then what do I know about men?" She smiled coldly but I did not respond.

"Good day, Mrs. Sinclair. Thank you for your help." I turned to go.

"Fancy a quick one before you go, love?"

I squared my shoulders and made for the door. "I never drink on duty."

She sniggered. "You don't know what you're missing, pal. I taught your bird all she knows."

I let the door bang loudly on the way out.

I called in a bar and made a few phone calls. Took half an hour to trace Catherine Morant. She was working out of the MoD Cranston labs in Berkshire- very secret, need to know establishment. Wouldn't like to think their scientists had pasts that made them liable to blackmail. I had her home address and worked out that if I put my foot down I might catch her at the office before she left - I didn't want to embarrass her in her private life.

A frantic dash down the M25 and I was at the highly secured entrance, flashing another ID and gaining admittance. Dr. Morant was in an inner laboratory, reached by a complex network of electronic doors and screenings. Finally I was led into a sterile white laboratory, silent white coated scientists at their stations, machinery humming low in the background.

A tall handsome woman, blonde hair swept up in a severe roll strode forward and shook my hand. Her face was devoid of makeup but her radiant beauty was all the more evident. Smooth, flawless skin, straight nose, full shapely lips. The sort of beauty that never aged. Catherine Morant would still be remarkable in old age- this was the real McCoy.

"How do you do? Terrence Thorne. Internal security." I nodded briskly and prepared to move on with my prepared spiel.

"I have your card. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Thorne. How may I help?"

I knew this woman. An image of her younger self, face pushed against a wall, her naked buttocks raised as I thrust into her, my hand wrapped round her neck... I blinked.

"This is a private matter and I do not wish to embarrass you or cause you any discomfort. Is there somewhere less public we might talk?"

Dr. Morant's eyes flickered briefly, a note of concern. "In that case, come into my office."

She pointed to a door that led off the laboratory and I followed her inside. Here there was a distinct change of environment. Flowers and plants decorated several surfaces, jewel bright scatter cushions lay on the small functional settee, gaudy paintings in primary colours brought splashes of bright light to the walls. She shrugged off her white coat to reveal the pale pink suit beneath. I smiled at the emergence of the real woman from behind the façade of the efficient and learned scientist.

"Is this about my past?" She spoke quietly but with a calm assurance.

"Yes."

"What do you want to know? Is this some kind of security breach? Are you concerned that I might be vulnerable to blackmail?"

I sat down and opened my jacket, placing my hands on the desk. "No. This is not about you. We have no interest in your previous involvements. I assure you anything that emerges about your past life is of no interest to me at all."

Dr. Morant sat down and sighed heavily. "I knew it would come to this some day. What is it?" She seemed resigned to this devastating moment when her youthful indiscretions came back to haunt her and possibly destroy a successful career- perhaps even her marriage. That thought made me check. No ring. Could be she doesn't wear it. Could be she lives with someone instead of a formal sanction. Could be she's alone.

"Some years ago, when you were still a student, you worked at a club then called 'Purple Rain'. Amongst the other women working there was another young University student. She was friendly with you. Her name was..."

"Roxanne." Catherine smiled. "Yes, I also know her real name. But she will always be Roxy to me. We tried to keep our real selves out of it, you know. Anyway she had changed her real name already. To Ummidia. Some woman she was researching. She was crazy. Loved to hide. Play games. But I liked her very much. We've lost touch now- is she in some kind of trouble?" Morant seemed concerned. I liked her more and more. She was facing a possible nightmare in her own life but still had compassion for her old friend who may have caused this revelation to come out.

"She might be. Classified. I just want to piece together some details of her former life. Can you give me anything?"

Catherine slumped back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. "I don't know really. She came to the club one day looking for work and they told her she was too skinny to strip. She begged and pleaded for a chance; said she'd work a week for free and they could judge whether she was worth it or not. They let her do a couple of lap dances that night and she had the blokes eating out of her hand. Guys loved her. She was just so abandoned and never seemed to be faking it. Coy and wild, warm and spirited. Got herself a permanent job."

"Did she ever discuss her motives?"

Morant grinned. "What for? We all knew why we were doing it. My parents refused to fund me and my scholarship was very small. It was either bar work for a pittance or a couple of nights a week earning a fortune. We would tell ourselves- it's only dancing. We do as much as that for free in nightclubs. But then a bloke offers you a hundred quid for a bit more. You rationalise- 'how many guys have I picked up for a one night stand- real jerks- might as well make it pay...' Bit by bit, you get dragged in." She put her head in her hands. "Mr. Thorne, you're a man. I am sure you are very respectable and happily married but you're still a man. You go to a place like that and pay for an easy lay. No need for foreplay, worry about how she'll feel in the morning, pregnancy- you just get stuck in and come. Five minutes tops. Everybody's happy."

I cleared my throat, unwanted images of this woman beginning to make me squirm slightly in my seat. I felt grateful for the coverage of my briefcase on my lap. "Did Roxy have a man behind this?"

Morant shook her head. "No. She was strictly anti-men when I knew her. Something bad had happened but she never shared it with me. I think it was connected to the university in some way though but that's all I can tell you. She was a giddy butterfly but never really let you in, you know?"

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"In hospital. She got more and more sucked into the prostitution- it was a little worrying. She seemed almost addicted to the danger of it and put herself in more and more risky situations. Used to think she had a death wish. Like a drug addict - a sex junkie."

"Was she using?"

That comment brought a pause. "Some. Roxy always liked to try things and I think she was sometimes looking for escape route. But she was not addicted to substances. Or men. Just danger. She used to hang around the bars of top hotels and pick men up, go anywhere with them. It wasn't safe. Finally she met a creep. He worked her over so badly. Her face was a mess. She was very quiet when I visited. Discharged herself the next week and disappeared. That's all I know. Is that of any help?"

I pursed my lips and thought. Memories. Uma and her amazing facility to turn Rawlins. Dino and Uma 'making out' in the lift. Uma picking up Jack and me in another hotel bar- asking for the money upfront -both the men knew she was right - it is rarely the fictional slipping of a few notes on the bedside table later. Uma's plaintive observation after Raul had raped her that she was a whore. I told her she wasn't. Ann told her she wasn't. The fact is she was- and it had saved her life.

I forced myself back to reality. "Thank you, Dr Morant. This has been helpful. More helpful than you know." I stood up and prepared to take my leave.

"Wait. What is this about? Is she OK? I would hate to think she was in trouble. Poor kid, she doesn't deserve it, but I know she's reckless enough to act without thinking. Is this something illegal? She won't suffer for what I have said, will she?"

I smiled a sad smile. "No, she won't suffer for this. She isn't in that kind of trouble. I can't really explain. Classified." I hid behind the favourite get- out clause. For all her formidable IQ, Dr. Morant was easier to fool than Mrs. Sinclair.  But then she worked on an area of research where classified was the name of the game. "I am sorry that I have had to put you through this. I wish I hadn't. I hope I haven't made things difficult for you..."

There was a sudden frown on the woman's smooth brow. "Do I know you? I had the feeling then that we had met before. In fact it struck me when you first walked in. Your face is very familiar to me..." I stopped and looked directly at her and then smiled knowingly.

"It's a bit embarrassing actually. No, you don't know me. But I get this a lot. Apparently I look like some Hollywood actor. Gets pretty annoying in a game like mine. Maybe I need plastic surgery?"

She smiled and her face relaxed. "Russell Crowe! You are a lot like him, actually. Better looking though." I grinned and acted coy. But I enjoyed the compliment. Change the look, Crowe. The Thorne style gets them every time. But I had escaped that uncomfortable glimmer of my own past that sneaked through. We shook hands and there was a slight moment of hesitation when I felt she wanted to say more. Not about Uma or my investigation. I heard the silence "Do you fancy a drink? I'm finished here for the night?" Did I? Yes, I did. But the moment passed and neither of us acted upon it. Pity. Part of me wanted to show her I was a different man from the wreck she'd met twelve years ago.

So where am I now? Uma was a working girl for two years. She was badly beaten up and finally extricated herself from this life and started afresh. She is ashamed I will find out, but at this stage in her life, something is making the memories resurface. Catherine said that something had happened at Uni to make her lose herself. What? That was my next stop.

I couldn't face going home. That has never happened to me before. I called her with an excuse. I had to go to a last minute meeting in Bristol, it finished late; I was staying over. I had never lied to her before. But even her voice on the other end of the line only brought a stilted and brief conversation from me. If she noticed anything, she didn't say, probably used by now to my distracted working persona; I could be in the company of clients and would not be inclined for chatter.

I checked into a city hotel, locked myself in a room, ordered room service and ate alone, a football match running by me but not holding my interest. I showered. I lay back and thought. And thought. And thought. In frustration I jumped up and paced about, drank a glass of Scotch, smoked a few cigarettes, worked out what I would do tomorrow. But I was still wakeful and unable to relax. I leaned over to retrieve the card from my jacket pocket; a bell boy had slipped it into my hand as I had entered the lift. Bloke alone in the city, no luggage. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes.

I turned the card over in my hand and tapped it against my lower lip, deep in thought. I had sworn these days were over once I moved in with Uma. There was no reason for it and it was an insult to the Sisters. I would be calling a woman like Roxy, another John to feed her habit for self-punishment. The card said 'Elite Escorts. For the discerning traveller' I called the number; it was answered immediately. A discreet and matter of fact conversation ensued.

Hotel?
Room number?
What do you want?
That will be... a figure quoted.

Ten minutes later, I heard the gentle tap and opened the door. Just what I had ordered. Room service. Tall, shapely blonde, skimpy dress and long, long legs. Her eyes flickered in a momentary show of surprise. I wasn't as bad as what she might have been expecting. We had fun. Couple of drinks, some small talk and down to business. She was good enough to get me going a few times; I paid and she left sometime in the middle of the night. From then till morning I slept deeply. But despite the exhaustion of my body, my mind was filled with the haunted image of my little girl knocking on a bedroom door in an expensive hotel and a man who beat her so badly that he put her in a hospital. Somewhere in my dreams, I became that man.

Waking to a grey early morning, head heavy and mouth bitter, I dragged myself to the bathroom and washed away the scent of the whore. My mood was as bleak as the morning but I went through the motions, as I had long ago learnt to do: sat and ate a breakfast that I didn't taste, read a newspaper that I barely absorbed.

Nine o'clock the next morning found me at London University, chatting up a pair of secretaries to get some information from the Records Department. It's easy when you know how; people are remarkably trusting when it's a professional man in an expensive suit. I flashed an ID, thumb covering most of it, mumbled CID, and they were very impressed. I can do a London accent pretty well - been here bloody long enough. I gave them Uma's real name and they gave me the printout in seconds; the complete extract of her University career. Impressive reading. First class honours, MA summa cum laude, began a PHD but dropped out in 1993. Lots of information about courses, grades, attendance, extra- activities (Turning tricks not mentioned) and a summer spent as a researcher for a famous historian in Italy. 1989. She would have been 22. The name Dr. P. Johnson was repeatedly mentioned as her tutor and mentor. Interesting. Think I need to meet him.

"Can you check if a Doctor Peter Johnson is still a member of the Classics Faculty- if not where is he now?"

They beavered off like good little girls and were back moments later. "He's still here -you know the Classics department, they go on forever- but he's the boss now. Professor Johnson. You'll find him in the Holt building, Room 301.

Thank you, ladies.

I may be a man who has spent most of his life in institutions where authority has been essential but I have never liked the atmosphere that always comes with the hallowed ground of senior administration. An army barracks- OK- but Whitehall bureaucrats give me the shits. This was one such place. The Classics Department was housed in the oldest building on that particular campus - it figures. It looked like it was Georgian- Jack had probably come here for dinner. It was a large white mansion standing alone in a small quadrangle, trees in their late autumn nudity, neat gardens laid out and park benches here and there where the hardier kids were lounging around smoking or discussing the pretentious crap that students spout. Entering the imposing portal, stepping on highly polished marble inlaid with some aristocratic crest from an earlier occupant, I approached the reception set in one corner of the atrium-like hall. I was directed three floors up a grand staircase to the staff offices. There I approached Dr. Johnson's private secretary, a large severe woman with an officious expression, hair cut like an SS female guard and the widest kilt I have ever seen set on her astounding hips. She moved with an alarming swing. I wouldn't tackle her on a dark night.

"Good day. My name is..." The usual. She looked at my credentials- this time the real ones- and then gave me a withering glance. She spoke with that refined Edinburgh accent which reduces all men to quivering jellies.

"Most irregular. Professor Johnson is a very busy man and never sees people without an appointment. I'll have you know he once turned away Peter Jones himself..." I acted duly impressed although who the fuck Peter Jones is was quite beyond me.

"I understand your position perfectly, Mrs..."

"Miss MacAlister." As if spinsterhood and misandry weren't written all over her face. 

"...Miss MacAlister, but this is a very urgent matter and involves a former student. There could be repercussions for the department if we do not handle this sensitively. Political matter...but I can say no more..."

She wasn't impressed. "There is no need to take that tone with me, Sir." (That was my most friendly approachable tone. I was fucked here.) "I will do what I can, but if I were you I wouldn't hold out any hope for an appointment today. Perhaps later in the week....?"

Last chance- make or break. "If you just pass this card to the professor and show him this on the back..." I scribbled the words 'De Ummidia'. Aren't you impressed? Bit of Latin there. Max will translate for you. Bravehips took the card suspiciously and looked at it. "That girl? I thought we'd heard the last of her, the brazen little hussy. She'll be the death of him yet..." But she took the card, swept out with the displacement of a ship of the line, and disappeared into the inner sanctum.

I stared about me at the book-lined office, its wainscoted walls smelling strongly of beeswax. Everything was ancient, weathered and worn: leather chairs, oak desk, floorboards, ornate ceiling. The window with its small glass panes looked out onto the square. It had the feel of another era, pre-war even, and the gaudy nights and days of a more innocent world. She had spent her days in this academic environment and her nights in a sex club. Both worlds alien to the real one. Has she always felt safer in an alternative reality? No wonder she values Perve World so much.

"The Professor will see you now, Mr. Thorne." Her clipped and concise accent, the rolled 'r's enunciated so carefully, brought me back to the job in hand.

"Thank you, Miss MacAlister, you've been most helpful."

"Is Uma in trouble?" She asked the question almost hopefully.

I smiled and declined to comment, knocking at the door to the inner office and entering.

Professor Peter Johnson was not what I had expected. You imagine blokes like this will be dried up old eccentrics, but he was a big ruddy-faced chap, maybe about fifty, curly fair hair, receding slightly, looked like he had played rugby in his time and he met me with a broad smile.

"Well, well ...De Ummidia! Clever one...so what she up to now?" But there was none of the disapproval of his secretary in his voice. Instead I could hear real affection and friendship. It confused me- I expected this man would have had more to hide. I shook his hand, introduced myself and we sat down at either sides of a large desk.

"I am trying to piece together the chain of events in Uma's life between the years of about 1990 and 1993. She is not in any trouble but the details are important in connection with something else I am investigating. I'm sorry to be so cryptic but this is all highly confidential..."

He held up his hand. "Say no more, old chap. We get a lot of students who go into the diplomatic world or the intelligence agencies. Classicists have good brains and often make excellent code setters- or breakers. I won't pry.  So you want to know about Uma?" He settled back and placed his hands behind his head, revealing the leather patches on his tweed jacket. He was quite a character. I'll bet Uma loved him to bits.

"I first met her as an undergrad. She challenged me on something in a lecture and damn well caught me on the hop. But I like that in a student. Remembered her when her name was put forward for an MA. Would have remembered her anyway- she was bloody gorgeous. Got my blood pumping, anyway. So I signed her up and she was under my tutelage for the next three years. We had some fun. She was as bright as a button, worked hard and was very competitive- had to be the best in everything. But she was no book worm. Rumour had it that she was a night bird and always out on the town, but she never missed class, or handed work in late- although she looked green around the gills some days, I can tell you. She did an excellent thesis and was offered a junior lectureship to cover her PHD studies. It wasn't much money but she seemed to manage, always beautifully turned out. I suspected rich parents although she never said."

I nodded. This was going nowhere. "Is there anything else that you know about her that might be significant?"

He thought a moment and shook his head. "Not really...apart for Sir Julian, that is..."

"Sir Julian?" I suddenly had one of those moments I am prone to at intervals when a creeping sensation warns me that something very important is being said. I listened even more intently.

"Sir Julian Winterbourne. You must have heard of him?" He asked this as if he had just mentioned some public icon like David Beckham. Or George Bush. Or Russell Crowe.

"I'm afraid not, Sir." I admitted, feigning an embarrassed tone.

"Really? He's a world famous Historian and novelist. You must have watched his award winning documentary "The Glory and the Grandeur"? It was about the late first century post Neronic period..."

I shook my head. "I'm afraid not, Sir, I watch little television." I didn't add that if I had stumbled on this I would have either switched channels or fallen asleep.

"No matter...but it was a triumph. Sir Julian was my professor at Oxford before he retired early to devote himself to his writing. He is a rich man in his own right- landed gentry, private income, you know? Lives most of the year in a villa on the bay of Naples, so I believe, but keeps a flat in Mayfair and of course the family estate in Devon. Anyway, Uma spent a summer as a researcher with him in Italy and the upshot was the old devil fell for her and he proposed. She came back that October with a large diamond ring and an even more impressive wardrobe. I think she moved into the Mayfair apartment, too, or so the gossips in the department maintained. Old MacAlister was cock-a-hoop at the scandal... 'The girl is no better than a courtesan...' I pointed out that she would have done well in Rome but that just brought scowls." He chuckled to himself broadly.

I was growing more confused by the minute. This was nothing to do with the parts of her life I had already uncovered. Uma had met a much older, wealthy man and had planned to marry him. Hardly outrageous, apart from the age difference. "Did they marry?"

Johnson shook his head. "No. They were together about two years and then it seemed to end rather abruptly. Uma was very upset but didn't say much. I believe she was homeless for a while and asked the department to wangle her a college room, which we did for the rest of the term. She finished her MA and began a PHD but never completed it. She dropped out suddenly after an accident of some kind and asked to defer for a year but that was that. I never saw her again. She does send me a card at Christmas though. She seemed to have sorted herself out. Taught for a few years and recently went overseas. Had a card last December....she said she'd met an Australian and was in love..." He stopped and looked at me, the light suddenly dawning in his eyes.

"What is this about? This is private, isn't it? You are the man she's with now, aren't you?"

I stared him out for a few seconds, smiled sardonically and stood up. "Thank you for your help, Professor. I'll see myself out..."

It didn't take much to look up Sir Julian Winterbourne. My ignorance really- he actually is a very famous name and I should have recognised it. A few calls to some CID contacts and I had his addresses -both UK homes and his Italian villa. I took a chance on the Mayfair address. Lo and behold I struck lucky- he was in residence.

The door of the apartment, in an elegant turn of the century block, was opened by a smart woman aged about fifty. She was attractive in that severe county style of many upper class British women who seem to prefer manliness to femininity in a most curious way. Reminded me of Penny's mother - now that's another story. One of the few women I have ever known who was impervious to any male charm. Must explain how she won Penny's Dad, a singularly charmless bastard if ever I've met one.

"Can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Sir Julian, if I may."

"Have you an appointment?"

"No...if you'll just give him my card and say this is a matter of some importance. National security." I wrote Uma's name on the rear of the card and passed it to her. She closed the door in my face with a curt "Wait here!" and disappeared within. As I expected she was back shortly. "My husband will see you for a short while but I ask you to be aware that he is an old man and not in good health..."

I followed her through the elegant but traditionally arranged apartment. Hard to imagine that Uma once was the mistress of this. I was led into a study where a roaring artificial gas fire gave the image of cosy olde worlde warmth. Sir Julian was sitting at his desk, a thick jumper over his thin frame and a travelling rug on his knees. I came forward and introduced myself tersely, giving him a thorough appraisal.

As far as I could tell, he appeared to be a tall, gaunt man, skin paper thin like old parchment; it had a greyish tinge. He was sick and it was more than the 'flu- you could see death in his eyes. He had the remains of what had probably been a handsome face, aquiline and haughty but still good bones and piercing blue eyes- there was little hair left on his well polished pate. The hand I shook was skeletal. I shuddered to think he had touched my little girl.

"Well...what is it then? What brings you here that is so hell fire important?" Sir Julian had not lost his wits.

"I am investigating a young woman and it has come to my notice that you were once engaged to her." I filled him in on the little I knew. All through my speech, he sat stony faced, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

"And if I did know her? Of what possible consequence is it to any investigation of yours?" His question was direct and unemotional.

I paused. "I am merely trying to piece together a back history for her. One never knows what might be discovered about her contacts..."

He broke in. "Mr. Thorne. Whoever you are... and I seriously doubt that the girl is of any national threat...you are obviously not intending to inform me of the reason for your interest in her. In return I have no intention of discussing her with you. I will say this. To my knowledge she was a little gold digger -albeit with a rather appealing appetite for sexual favours - and I am relieved that I saw through her. Perhaps you would be wise to do the same. See yourself out please."

He pressed a button and his wife returned to direct me back to the door. She did not speak to me, nor I to her.

Dead end? I don't think so. He was the key but I couldn't break him without resorting to intimidation and even I wasn't prepared to do that to an old bloke on his last legs. There was only one person who could fill me in on the missing links which might fill in the gaps and make some sense of this tale. I had avoided her long enough.

I was driving home across central London when another idea occurred to me. Maybe I was avoiding Uma, or maybe this was something else, but an alternative notion beckoned. I was investigating this story in PW. At the time the events had occurred neither of us had crossed our portals. Now the portals have been somewhat on my mind of late for several reasons, not the least the way Ann had made use of hers and Heather's own revelations. Somehow I wondered if the portal might show me something that might save my Uma from the inevitable pain of a confrontation on this subject.

Normally I am not given to spontaneous action preferring to think and plan first before I act, but this time I did an unusual thing. I simply parked my car, strolled over to the Lloyd's building and made my way to the lift. Five minutes later I was through my portal, it was early morning and the same date. I was getting good at this.

Taxi to London City airport, shuttle to Manchester, hired a car and I was at the old house by lunchtime. I wondered what I would find. I wasn't prepared for this one. There was no one in at Uma's place and it seemed rather forlorn. There was a For Sale sign in the garden and a look of loneliness about the house, something I could not define but unmistakable. I wandered about, thinking maybe she was still at work or overseas, feeling the frustration of another dead end rising before me. Then I heard the voice.

"Can I help you?"

I turned and recognised the woman addressing me. Uma's next door neighbour. She knew me vaguely in our other reality but obviously not in this one. I gave a professional smile and launched into my attack. "Terry Thorne. How d'ya do? I'm an investigator- Insurance- and was hoping I could speak to ..." I saw her face change but didn't think anything of it at first.

"Is this about the accident?" She asked in a shocked whisper.

"Accident?" I echoed like a fool.

"You are not from her insurance company?" And then she told me - and I swear I blacked out for an instance- certainly I barely retained my equilibrium.

"Could you repeat that?" I heard myself say.

"Uma died last year in a terrible car accident. I'm sorry but I still find it hard to believe that she's gone. She was such a free spirit, such a lovely woman. Too good for this world maybe?"

Somehow I thanked her for her help, got back in the car and held on long enough to find the nearest pub and throw back a few shots of whisky. This was something else. In my reality, Uma died in 2002, presumably before she met me- or even joined PW. What is going on? What does this mean? I had already worked out that I had died in Heather's reality and this second emergence of a recurring theme was disturbing to say the least. I didn't know what it meant but I did know one thing for sure. The more I discover about PW, the more I feel both thankful for it and also concerned as to what it is actually there for. Heather once called it 'The Last Chance Saloon'. Now her glib statement was beginning to take on a frightening accuracy.

With an effort that took more of my strength than I would like to admit, I forced myself to retrace myself and get back to our world but there was no excuse for it now. I had to talk to Uma and piece together the whole story. I also had to make sure she never found out what I had discovered through my own portal.

She was out when I reached home. A note propped up on the kitchen table, scribbled in her usual slapdash fashion read:

Guess what? Emma hasn't seen MC so I am taking her to it. She says if the battles are bloody enough she might go into labour- she's overdue. What fun! I'll be back about ten...unless she decides to drop the baby and then who knows when I'll return!!

Uma xxxxxxxxxxxxx

So I sat and waited, drinking steadily, and playing out the hundreds of permutations of the likely story from the available evidence. Few of them made me feel good. I heard the car pull into the drive, the voices of two women as they said goodnight and then shortly after, her key in the door. Uma bounded into the hall, snapping on lights as she ran and calling my name. She knew I was back, as my car was there but I had been sitting in near darkness, only a small lamp on in the room where I was.

"Tez? You there? Terry?" She came into the lounge and flipped on the light, jumping slightly when she saw me sitting on an armchair. "Bloody hell, you made me jump! What are you doing sitting in the dark. Hey, I've seen it a dozen times already...it gets better every time..." Then she stopped, her radar sensing my mood. For a moment we just looked at each other and then I pressed play on the remote in my hand. The CD player began its mournful lament.

Roxanne
You don't have to put on the red light
Those days are over
You don't have to sell your body to the night

Roxanne
You don't have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right

"What the fuck is this about?" Uma spat out through her teeth, her eyes wild and refusing to make contact with mine. I knew the signs- she was cornered and she would either stand and fight as hysterically as she knew how - or run. And she had a clear path to the door and car keys in her hand. I was on her before she had crossed the hall.

"NO! You stay and talk to me. I'm not letting you go."

She struggled but without much conviction; all the fight seemed to have gone out of her and her light frame sagged in my firm grip. The haunting voice continued to sing the song and her face showed the shattering effect it was having on her.

I loved you since I knew you

I wouldn't talk down to you
I have to tell you just how I feel
I won't share you with another boy
I know my mind is made up
So put away your make up
Told you once, I won't tell you again
It's a bad way

Roxanne
You don't have to put on the red light
Roxanne
You don't have to sell your body to the night

I held her from behind, her wrists tight in my grip and whispered in her ear. "I know, Tink. Please, don't lie any more."

She looked up at me, horror in her expression. "What do you know?"

"I know who Roxanne is. Tell me the whole story. Please."

She was very still. I was not sure if she was thinking or in shock. I began to worry that I might have gone too far with my shock tactics- were they too brutal? What might the physical consequence be for her? "How do you know?" her voice was little more than a whisper but I caught every word.

"I suspected and I went digging. It wasn't hard to piece together."

"You investigated me? Who do you think you are to pry in my life?"

"The man who loves you. Does that not give me any right?"

"This was private. I did - not -wish -for- you- to -know." Her words were beginning to come out as sobs, dry heaving sobs. She suddenly retched and I steered her to the bathroom off the hall; she threw her guts up in the bowl. I stood and watched her, helpless, guilty.

"When you suspected I was hiding something- what did you do first?"

Uma got to her feet, took a glass of water and washed her face. I knew I was being cruel but if I didn't get through now, she would retreat from me and I would never get through at all.

"I started digging," came her reply voiced in a dull monotone.

"Why?"

"Because I love you and wanted to help."

"Then you have your answer."

She walked out of the room towards the kitchen and started to make a pot of tea, almost in a daze. I sat down by the table, joined my hands and waited for her to speak. I knew she would. It just takes time.

She prepared the pot carefully, brewed it the right length, put milk in the cups, strained the tea; each movement measured and performed with an intense concentration as if her life depended on it. Perhaps it did. She handed me the china cup and saucer, I took it from her and rested it down on the table top. She sank into a chair opposite, buried her head in her hands and began.

"My story's not like yours. Yours is one of nobility and honour amongst dreadful betrayal. Mine is sleazy and tawdry and shows that I am a person of no morals whatsoever. You might love me now but you'll hate me when you hear the truth." Uma seemed to have made a decision; there was a look of intense acceptance on her face. "I knew this day would come. I have just been kidding myself really."

I reached and took her hand. "Nothing will change, baby. Just that I will know what is hurting you. I'll never feel any different. I promise. This is not about how I will feel. There is nothing you can say that will turn me away. I have seen worse things in life than anything you have done. Trust me."

She smiled hesitantly, stroked my face and looked longingly at me as if she would soon never see me again. "What do you know? Tell me what you know."

I told her my findings. She listened and said nothing. When I finished she looked at me curiously. "So you don't mind that your woman had sold her body to all and sundry?"

I shrugged. "I don't relish the idea, but whatever made you do it, it was something really bad in your life. You were down in the basement. Young and lost. You dragged yourself back again. That's the woman I respect- not the kid who messed up."

"But you don't understand. I'm not exactly proud of myself, but the fact that I once worked in a sex club is not a big deal to me. Many girls do- you'd be surprised. It's no different than sleeping around- but you get paid for it. Terry, that's the end of the story not the beginning. You found the result not the cause. Cause and effect, Terry, the historian's watchwords. You are not so clever as you think. You can't begin at the end."

"Then tell me the beginning. Make it make sense for me. I don't understand."

She sat composed, drawing slow and measured breaths. Her hands were resting on her knees. "I made a complete fuck up of my life. Got myself in debt and didn't care enough how I got out of it. After what I had done, turning tricks didn't seem much of a problem."

"Uma...words of one syllable. From the top..."

"I had just finished the first year of my MA. Dr Johnson, my tutor offered me a holiday job. He was really soft on me. I mean he was a very nice bloke- happily married and all but he has this crush on me and he knew I was short of money. So I got the chance of a lifetime. Research assistant to Sir Julian Winterbourne. He's a very famous man in academic and literary circles. Free flight, board and lodging and a small wage for the summer. He lives in a beautiful villa in Ravello above Amalfi on the bay of Naples. It's an amazing place- it felt like being in one of those old Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movies, you know? Sir Julian...well, you met him...he was about 65. Tall, imposing man - good looking in a gaunt sort of way. He made me feel gauche and unsophisticated. He was from the upper classes and I was a pretentious little northern girl whose accent occasionally slipped through.

But I worked hard and after a few weeks he seemed pleased enough with me and asked me to attend an evening reception with him. I thought nothing of it. He had introduced to so much already- we spent days in Pompeii, Herculaneum, the Museo di Napoli and I had access to all the things that only very favoured academics are allowed. Bliss for me. Sir Julian was part of a sort of international literati set on the Bay- it is a real artist's colony and in the summer they are all down there entertaining. I was allowed access to that. I lapped it up. I thought "This is your chance. Get your name known, meet a few significant people. Everything counts in life, you know?" I made a good impression and Sir Julian was pleased with me so it became a regular thing for me to accompany him whenever he went out. I didn't really have the right clothes so he took me to Naples and bought me appropriate things.

Terry - I was twenty two. Came from an ordinary family. He took me to Schiaparelli, Armani, Versace...can you imagine what an impression that made? I was like a piece of unshapen clay to him- he could mould me into what he wanted like Pygmalion. You know Pygmalion, the Greek legend that they based My Fair Lady on? He was my Professor Higgins. He was my Svengali. I learnt to dress, conduct myself, be an intelligent but decorative escort.

I just thought he was being kind. He was a widower, his wife had died of cancer eight years before, and he had lived rather reclusively since. Any fool could see what was coming- but I didn't. One night I was reading on the balcony. It was a really hot night and I was wearing a thin nightdress. He joined me and asked me to come to his room. I didn't want to but I didn't know how to say no. He had been so kind and...I might have been naïve but I was sufficiently self motivated to understand that there was a lot more than a few dresses at stake here. So I went. It wasn't particularly pleasant but it wasn't a hardship either. He hadn't had sex for years- he was an old man. He came so quickly that I hardly knew that he was in. I cried after he fell asleep but only the first time. You get used to it very quickly.

So I became his mistress and he kept me in a grand style; I was like a plaything that he could show off to his friends. October came and we returned to London for the new term. I moved in to his Mayfair apartment and lived like a lady. He gave me a substantial income, gold card, bought me a sports car, accounts at Harrods and Harvey Nicks...all I had to do was open my legs once or twice a week. I changed my name because he asked me to. I didn't have enough allure so he persuaded me to use the name of the Roman woman that I was researching for my thesis. Some how it stuck. Anyway, one name's much the same as another, isn't it? A rose by any other name would smell pretty much the same?"

She stopped and looked at me. It was the first eye contact she had made since she began. I smiled back at her in encouragement. "Go on...don't stop now..."

"He proposed on Christmas Eve that year. I told my parents- they were furious. My Dad was forty six. This guy could have been my grandfather. We had a big row and I never saw them for about four years. New Years' Eve, Julian had a bad virus and stayed in. I went out with friends. We were in a club in London and I met this guy. Need I say more? He was 23, blonde, beautiful. A quiet man, reserved and shy- I just liked him straight away. His name was John. We ended up in his flat in Hackney. We made love all night.

So little Lolita had two lives. Mistress of the rich old guy, but slipping out whenever she could to have a wild passionate affair with a young man who fell madly in love with her. He asked me to marry him. So now I had two men wanted to make a decent woman of me. I played them both. I was fond of John but he was a struggling musician - I couldn't give up what Julian was offering me. I was so bloody stupid and selfish. I wanted it all, so I kept them both hanging on by weaving a web of lies. I thought I was so clever.

But pride comes before a fall, eh? I was pregnant. God knows how- but I was always taking crazy chances. It wasn't Julian's- he had told me that he had a low sperm count and that is why he and his first wife had no children. He didn't want them anyway- particularly not now. It had to be John's. What did I do? What do you think I did?"

There was a silence in the room. The clock ticked and seemed to shatter our ear drums as she fought for the next words. I said nothing.

"I had an abortion. But I wasn't well after it and I called a friend. She told John and they came round. He hadn't known about Julian and it all came out. He was devastated. I killed his baby and had never even given him a choice. He just walked away. I never saw him again. But I was OK. In the clear. Got rid of two embarrassing mistakes. I even remember feeling pleased with myself when I was back on my feet. Celebrated my release. Could I have been any more crass? Julian was away on a lecture tour. He arrived back and dropped his bombshell. He had decided that I was too young and had met a more suitable woman. Could I leave, please- he gave me a night to pack. I was stunned. He took back all the jewellery he had given me, closed all the accounts and left me with debts unpaid. I found out later that someone had told him that I had been seeing a younger man. Jesus - how these things get out, I'll never know.

So I was homeless. Moneyless. In debt and had developed rather a taste for the high life and no means to fund my habit. After a few weeks in a Uni bedsit, I made my mind up. I'd sold my body to Sir Julian, what was the difference with other men? You can't get much lower than a woman who will kill a baby just so that she can get her hands on an old man's fortune. You think I'm ashamed of being a whore? A whore's life is noble compared to the one I had been living."

I leant forward and took her cold little hand. All these years she had been riddled with guilt for this. "When did this happen?"

"Nov 10th 1990. That was the day I killed my baby."

"October 10th? Jesus Christ!"

She stared at me. "Oh yes...funny how things turn out, isn't it?"

I didn't know what to say. She was a tight wound up ball of misery and guilt. For thirteen years she had carried this inside her and believed herself damned for her behaviour, when it was merely what women are doing every day of the week: making a choice to control their own lives. It occurred to me that she was probably the most moral woman I had ever met, the product of Catholic guilt and her own rigorous standards of crime and punishment. Where could I begin to show her what she needed to see in herself?

"When would your baby have been born?"

"May 1991. It would have been twelve this year."

"We were in Spain."

"I know."

A startling recollection of finding her sitting on the balcony crying one night; she had told me that she was so happy to be with me again that she couldn't stop crying. In fact she had cried for her lost baby and the knowledge that, with me, she could never put right that sin and bring another life into the world. But she would never have let me know; it would have killed her to make me feel I was letting her down. I was humbled again by all the ways in which she protects me and I never even know.

"You were a very young woman and you made a mistake. No one would blame you for that."

She fixed her eyes on me, red spots in her white cheeks, eyes bright with tears.  "I didn't know how selfish I could be. That's when I realised what a foul person I was. I broke everything I touched and in the end it almost broke me. It was only lying in that hospital bed because that bloke had beaten me half senseless and I began to realise how far down I had sunk. I might not care for myself but there were people in this world who deserved better from me- my parents, my friends for instance, and perhaps one day I might be able to make amends for all the crap I'd dished out."

"So I left it all behind. Went home, took an ordinary job and gave up the dreams I used to have. And that is where I was when I was offered membership of a rather special club. I just thought it was a lark and then Bud turned up and I found the perfect place to be. Sex and love without any need to give more than myself than I could. Friendship and support -but the dignity of keeping my past to myself. Didn't bargain on you, though. Just thought you'd be a real smooth operator with your heart firmly under wraps. Instead you blew me away and made me think for a time that maybe it was possible that bad girls sometimes get the good guys."

I shook my head and slipped from the floor, to kneel before her; she put her arms around my neck and rested her head on mine, I held her close. "I don't know what you expect me to say. I'm just so glad I know this and we have it in the open between us. I don't have any judgement to make. It happened. It's part of you. Without this you would not be you. I'm not a perfect man, never was and never will be. It doesn't have any significance on how I feel about you... Let me tell you a story as a point of illustration."

I stood up and pulled her to her feet, lifting her in my arms and taking her to the soft comfort of the lounge and its deep upholstered couch. There we lay side by side and I stroked her face as I whispered to her. "The summer I was eighteen- when I left sixth form was probably one of the best times of my young life. Exams over, I had received my commission for officer training and was bound for a life in the army in the January. I had six weeks to play and have fun before I began my way in the world." She smiled softly, probably imagining me as the young man I had been.

"There was a gang of us from school- mates, team buddies and so on and we had girls hanging off us right, left and centre. I was a bit of a lad, Uma. I wasn't a bastard but I liked a good rooting and I generally didn't make close relationships.  I wanted to be foot loose and fancy free. No ties. Could have had a different sheila every night- sometimes I did. But I got to know a really nice girl called Corinne. She was from a good Catholic family, heading for Uni and not really one for throwing herself at the blokes."

I stopped and smiled myself at the memory long forgotten. Twenty two years ago- a fucking lifetime. "She fell for me- I knew it -and she gravitated to our set. The other girls were a bit shitty to her- she was a real pretty blonde girl but they treated her like a bit of a dork. I was already showing White Knight tendencies even then and I told them to leave her be. We were at a barbie on the beach one night and I asked her to go for a walk   Not my finest hour- I took her virginity behind a sand dune. But, I liked her a lot and she just wasn't the kind of girl that you fuck and dump somehow."

"We ended up spending the summer together. I rationalised it that she knew I was leaving the next month and I'd soon be able to extricate myself. I was very well in with the family. Her Mum and Dad liked me a lot and thought I was the real McCoy. Her Dad would give me a beer and clap me on the back and tell me I was a fine young man and I would give the talk and then half an hour later I'd be rooting her in the back of his car. Jesus, young men- ought to be fucking locked up!" But I laughed and so did she.

"The point of the story is this - a couple of weeks before I was off to basic, she drops her bombshell. 'Terry. I'm late...I think I'm pregnant...' Fuck, the smile was wiped off my face pretty damn quick then. I took her home and said that I would see her tomorrow and then I went home and threw up. Lay awake all night and considered my options. Next morning I went round to my Uncle Jim's place- he was my Dad's younger brother; he'd never married- a bit of a lad in his time and still fancied himself as wide boy. Told him about the mess I was in and he lent me the money."

Uma stopped and touched my face. I leant in against her hand and went on. "I called on Corinne and I put it to her straight. We were both too young and had our lives to live. She had to get rid of it. I had the money and I'd help her all I could, but there was no way I was going to be a father. She cried. She begged me. She said she wouldn't expect anything from me, just the baby; she'd square it with her Dad. She'd managed. I put my foot down and brow beat her into having an abortion."

I put my hands over my face, Tink pulled them away and kissed my closed eyelids. "No, Tink, I'm not upset. That's my point. I made my mind up and I've never regretted it. I met her years later at a friend's wedding and she thanked me. She said she would have ruined her life and it had been for the best- but she still said - 'Do you ever wonder..?' I said no, never thought of it since that day. She said, 'A day never passes that I don't think of it.' That's men and women, Tink. I only know it happened in December because it was my summer holidays. I never thought of the date and that I might have had a grown up son or daughter. Even when Penny told me she was pregnant, I wasn't keen and would have accepted it had she wanted an abortion. But she didn't and I was in love and so we got married. You didn't do any more than me and Corinne. I wanted a better life and my freedom - no difference at all really. You've got to see that, Uma."

She sat up by me cross-legged, deep in thought. "I see there's a difference, but my sense of shame can't be erased as simply as that- we are what we are, Terry. You may be strong enough to weather the blows I have given you but what about the others? What will the Sisters say? The tart who really is a tart? And what about the Brothers? Will they want to come near me again? Won't they wonder if I was just simply playing the whore all the time with them? Men like Bud and Jack, Cort and..."

"Maximus? You think he'll consign you to the dancing girl part of his brain now?" I added, perhaps a little too hopefully.

She grinned sadly, a secret look that said more to me than any words. "No. Not Max. I'm not scared what he thinks."

I knew it then as clearly as if she had told me. "He knows all this, doesn't he?" I recoiled slightly from her, unable to keep the bitter shock from my voice.

She nodded. "He knew how much I wanted a baby to put it right. So bizarre. I meet a good man and fall in love and he can't give me a child. So I choose never to be a mother. Never to be able to make good that act of desecration. Then Max gave me a way, but I was unsure. I never really wanted it to be anyone but you. That's why I never told you. Most of all because I didn't want you to feel that you'd failed me, because you hadn't, and you never could. I was the failure and maybe all this was just part of the punishment. But why would God punish you? What did you ever do wrong?"

She cried then and I held her. Later she grew calmer and seemed more willing to talk. She filled me in on some of the things with almost a sense of relief. I know that feeling. It had come to me when I was at last able to free myself of my burdens. Catharsis. She told me the Greeks believed it was essential for the well being of the human psyche. Reckon those old buggers knew a thing or two.

"Terry? What did you think of Molly?" I suddenly heard her question from amidst my own reverie.

"Beautiful woman. I liked her a lot."

Uma nodded. "Me too. Catherine. Know what she called herself Molly? It was a joke. Molly Cule the physicist. We laughed about that. She was the only one I talked to. Sometimes we talked about the punters- the real crazies or the ones who creeped us out. One day she told this odd story. About this really handsome guy who came in and asked her to do the business. She wondered why- he could have gone anywhere and picked a girl up for free. She took him in the back into the dressing room. He paid her and then she asked what he wanted. He flung her against a wall, grabbed her by the neck, ripped off her pants and took her. But he wasn't really rough- he took his time and seemed ashamed of himself. Apologised afterwards and paid her more. Kept saying he was sorry. She said that it was the first time she had wished a John would ask her to take him home. She thought he needed some love. I said she was mental." She looked at me and I couldn't hide from the incisive gaze.

"It was you, Terry, wasn't it? You thought you brutalised a young woman. You have no idea what men are like it when they pay for it, sweetie. I wanted to tell you that before but I couldn't admit it then. Even in your worst hour you didn't frighten her or do anything bad. Just a bit rough. You couldn't be a bad guy if you tried."

Imagine had my eyes strayed to a slender red hared girl first that night. I would have gone for her- she had the look that I always like. Girlish and sophisticated. Slender and lithe. The damage that would have done to anything we might have later tried to be for each other. A lucky escape? Serendipity? The Game Plan? In a stark realisation it came to me that our lives had touched fleetingly through another person, just as my life had fleetingly touched Heather's through Dino. But in both of those realities one or the other had died preventing a further meeting. My head swam with the implications and I held her closer to me than ever.

"Don't look so scared, Terry. I don't understand it either but something brought us together and it wouldn't do that unless there was a really good reason. If you can stand me, then maybe you were meant to save me. Who can say?"

She's quite crazy, but yet her madness has the ring of truth. What is it all about? Why are we here? There has to be another purpose for the elaborate nature of this Game which every day reveals itself more complex and perplexing. What will the others think of her? I think they will hold her to them even more tenderly than they do already, but if they don't, it is their loss. A flower crushed underfoot by the selfishness of men, an impressionable girl taken advantage of and dropped by an old man who should have known better. I wished I had that old bastard in front of me - I'd have hurried his departure into the next life, sure enough.

What do I think? I think I am the luckiest man alive and thank God the other bastards didn't claim her first. I'll spend the rest of my life showing her that. Count on it.