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himself around for half an hour； bellowing his head off。
He was sweating。 The groove of his breast…bone was slick with it； his hair plastered to his pale forehead。 Today had been hard work： he was looking forward to getting out of the room； sluicing himself down； and basking in admiration awhile。 The Go…Between put his hand down his briefs and played with himself； idly。 Somewhere in the room a fly； or flies maybe； were trapped。 It was late in the season for flies； but he could hear them somewhere close。 They buzzed and fretted against the window； or around the light bulb。 He heard their tiny fly voices； but didn't question them； too engrossed in his thoughts of the game； and in the simple delight of stroking himself。
How they buzzed； these harmless insect voices； buzzed and sang and plained。 How they plained。
Mary Florescu drummed the table with her fingers。 Her wedding ring was loose today； she felt it moving with the rhythm of her tapping。 Sometimes it was tight and sometimes loose： one of those small mysteries that she'd never analysed properly but simply accepted。 In fact today it was very loose： almost ready to fall off。 She thought of Alan's face。 Alan's dear face。 She thought of it through a hole made of her wedding ring； as if down a tunnel。 Was that what his death had been like： being carried away and yet further away down a tunnel to the dark？ She thrust the ring deeper on to her hand。 Through the tips of her index…finger and thumb she seemed almost to taste the sour metal as she touched it。 It was a curious sensation； an illusion of some kind。
To wash the bitterness away she thought of the boy。 His face came easily； so very easily； splashing into her consciousness with his smile and his unremarkable physique； still unmanly。 Like a girl really…the roundness of him； the sweet clarity of his skin…the innocence。
Her fingers were still on the ring； and the sourness she had tasted grew。 She looked up。 Fuller was organizing the equipment。 Around his balding head a nimbus of pale green light shimmered and wove…She suddenly felt giddy。
Fuller saw nothing and heard nothing。 His head was bowed to his business； engrossed。 Mary stared at him still； seeing the halo on him； feeling new sensations waking in her； coursing through her。 The air seemed suddenly alive： the very molecules of oxygen； hydrogen； nitrogen jostled against her in an intimate embrace。 The nimbus around Fuller's head was spreading； finding fellow radiance in every object in the room。 The unnatural sense in her fingertips was spreading too。 She could see the colour of her breath as she exhaled it： a pinky orange glamour in the bubbling air。 She could hear； quite clearly； the voice of the desk she sat at： the low whine of its solid presence。
The world was opening up： throwing her senses into an ecstasy； coaxing them into a wild confusion of functions。 She was capable； suddenly； of knowing the world as a system； not of politics or religions； but as a system of senses； a system that spread out from the living flesh to the inert wood of her desk； to the stale gold of her wedding ring。
And further。 Beyond wood； beyond gold。 The crack opened that led to the highway。 In her head she heard voices that came from no living mouth。
She looked up； or rather some force thrust her head back violently and she found herself staring up at the ceiling。 It was covered with worms。 No； that was absurd！ It seemed to be alive； though； maggoty with life…pulsing； dancing。
She could see the boy through the ceiling。 He was sitting on the floor； with his jutting member in his hand。 His head was thrown back； like hers。 He was as lost in his ecstasy as she was。 Her new sight saw the throbbing light in and around his body…traced the passion that was seated in his gut； and his head molten with pleasure。
It saw another sight； the lie in him； the absence of power where she'd thought there had been something wonderful。 He had no talent to mune with ghosts； nor had ever had； she saw this plainly。 He was a little liar； a boy…liar； a sweet； white boy…liar without the passion or the wisdom to understand what he had dared to do。
Now it was done。 The lies were told； the tricks were played； and the people on the highway； sick beyond death of being misrepresented and mocked； were buzzing at the crack in the wall； and demanding satisfaction。
That crack she had opened： she had unknowingly fingered and fumbled at； unlocking it by slow degrees。 Her desire for the boy had done that： her endless thoughts of him； her frustration； her heat and her disgust at her heat had pulled the crack wider。 Of all the powers that made the system manifest； love； and its panion； passion； and their panion； loss； were the most potent。 Here she was； an embodiment of all three。 Loving； and wanting； and sensing acutely the impossibility of the former two。 Wrapped up in an agony of feeling which she had denied herself； believing she loved the boy simply as her Go…Between。
It wasn't true！ It wasn't true！ She wanted him； wanted him now； deep inside her。 Except that now it was too late。
The traffic could be denied no longer： it demanded； yes； it demanded access to the little trickster。
She was helpless to prevent it。 All she could do was utter a tiny gasp of horror as she saw the highway open out before her； and understood that this was no mon intersection they stood at。
Fuller heard the sound。
〃Doctor？〃 He looked up from his tinkering and his face…washed with a blue light she could see from the corner of her eye…bore an expression of enquiry。
〃Did you say something？〃 he asked。
She thought； with a fillip of her stomach； of how this was bound to end。
The ether…faces of the dead were quite clear in front of her。 She could see the profundity of their suffering and she could sympathize with their ache to be heard。
She saw plainly that the highways that crossed at Tollington Place were not mon thoroughfares。 She was not staring at the happy； idling traffic of the ordinary dead。 No； that house opened onto a route walked only by the victims and the perpetrators of violence。 The men； the women； the children who had died enduring all the pains nerves had wit to muster； with their minds branded by the circumstances of their deaths。 Eloquent beyond words； their eyes spoke their agonies； their ghost bodies still bearing the wounds that had killed them。 She could also see； mingling freely with the innocents； their slaughterers and tormentors。 These monsters； frenzied； mush…minded blood…letters； peeked through into the world： nonesuch creatures； unspoken； forbidden miracles of our species； chattering and howling their Jabberwocky。
Now the boy above her sensed them。 She saw him turn a little in the silent room； knowing that the voices he heard were not fly…voices； the plaints were not insect…plaints。 He was aware； suddenly； that he had lived in a tiny corner of the world； and that the rest of it； the Third； Fourth and Fifth Worlds； were pressing at his lying back； hungry and irrevocable。 The sight of his panic was also a smell and a taste to her。 Yes； she tasted him as she had always longed to； but it was not a kiss that married their senses；