t always seems so easy for the heroines in novels, doesn’t it? I mean, to be able to just pick up right where you’ve left off, after facing untold dangers, harrowing adventures and unspeakable villainy, isn’t as easy as you might think. Real life was much different, at least mine was. I found some solace in throwing myself into work, manically inputting the story onto disk as it had happened, as if by that act, I could turn fact into fiction. For me, that was very nearly what happened. Reality and fantasy became so entangled in my mind until I wasn’t sure I could tell one from another anymore. While I didn’t consciously blame Arthur, I did transfer much of my anger to him, as if he hadn’t been through enough. The enemy became, in my twisted thinking, the Institute, Sir David, Rolly and all the others who’d surreptitiously invaded my life; especially the Doctor, who was not so much a real life husband and lover anymore, but the imagined cause of my pain and the brunt of my hostility. I guess I wasn’t very easy to live with.

Rollison insinuated himself into my life, pestering me at least once a day. I noticed that there seemed to be an awful lot of tradesmen coming to my door lately, hanging around my apartment and even my office. I wasn’t that naïve. I understood that I was being carefully guarded. It was awful, like living in a goldfish bowl. Even though I knew I should’ve been grateful that the Institute was being so careful of my life, I found the intrusion on my privacy nearly intolerable. I was beginning to play mental games, trying to spot who was watching over me and who might be just waiting for an opportunity to close in, relieve me of my unwanted burden.

Half hysterically one morning, I was reminded of that old joke, about how even paranoids do have enemies. I finally retaliated by pretending that my watch dogs didn’t exist. I refused to answer the phone and took some sadistic satisfaction in Rolly’s pleading for me to cooperate and call him, as he encountered my answering machine for the tenth time. When I emptied the teapot into the garden outside my door, I smiled and waved to the cable T.V. guy who had been working on the metal upright boxes around my flat for days. Working, I must say, without any noticeable improvement in the quality of my reception. As I watched, his beeper went off and he left, probably to call in and let Rolly know I was indeed safe at home, but being incredibly obstinate.

Regardless of my mental state, I remained functional, at least on the surface. I went to my mundane job everyday, and buried myself in my writing during the rest of my waking time. Most of my time was waking these days. In spite of having been witness to his death, I knew with certainty that somehow, somewhere Malcolm Dennings still lived. I saw his face, those pale luminous eyes, his predatory grin, every time I closed my eyes. He lived in my mind, in my nightmares, haunting every sleeping moment and turning night into torture. I had lost weight in England, but was gaining it back rapidly and more. Instead of sleeping, I found solace in food, working late into the night on my journal, eating compulsively. Finally, when my clothes were beginning to be uncomfortably tight, I stopped and went the other way, resorting to pre-packaged instant diet drinks for my only nutrition. The balance I had striven so hard to achieve was gone like a puff of smoke in a hurricane. My life was careening out of control. I felt there was no one I could turn to. With the Book still out there ...somewhere...and the two talismans still in my possession, involving anybody would have only been leading them into the same dark tunnel in which I felt trapped. I could no longer turn to my Coven in ‘perfect trust and perfect love’...I didn’t trust anyone.

Not that my life didn’t have some good moments. Remarkably, my son and I were getting along for a change, and I was certainly not prey to writer’s block. Still, I couldn’t find any comfort in my philosophy anymore. It was as if a little part of me had died, and the rest of me just didn’t care. My magic was gone, casualty to my own apathy. I felt cut off, drifting uncaringly in a Universe I no longer felt a part of. The funny thing is, aside from Arthur, nobody seemed to notice. I continued with my life on auto pilot.

Only two of the three rolls of film I had taken came out. All the photos I’d shot at Glastonbury and after that, were missing, the film blank. That meant that I had no pictures of Arthur. It was just another sign to me, that we were destined to hurt one other and it might be best if we separated for good. I kept that notion to myself for the moment, realizing that until the Book was recovered and destroyed, we needed each other and BITS. It was easy for me to rationalize pushing yet another decision off into the murky, nebulous future. Living each endless day was taking all my strength. Arthur had managed to slip away for a week, and seemed anxious to disappear somewhere with me where we could be alone. I knew somehow, that I should have been looking forward to a week long holiday, but indifference was the order of the day for me. I spent the night before I was to meet him at Newark Airport as I spent most of my nights, writing at my portable computer. It was well past midnight when I finally fell across my bed, exhausted, to sleep for an hour or two.

I had become used to the nightmares, half re-membered fragments drifting through my mind even as I fought to carry on my day, but this was different. It wasn’t Malcolm Dennings, or Dr. Mayfair or even Marge Kelly with her perverted sidekick who tormented me in my own personal hell; it was Peter. Peter, whose last name I didn’t know, the acolyte who’d tortured Arthur while I was forced to watch. The same young man with the slightly chubby innocence, who’d confided in me even as I was chained on the Dark One’s altar, but whose soul was inextricably caught in the trap of hopelessness which was the way of evil, now for the first time invaded my dreams.

The eyes that stared at me from the youthful face had never belonged to the Peter I knew. They were ageless and far from innocent, completely untouched by the small grin that flitted across the boyish features. "Did I tell you, Lady Tarish, what work my little Rose was sent to?"

As it is in dreams, I seemed unencumbered, but helpless to move. I had an idea what he meant, a very nasty one. Slowly, I shook my head.

"Oh, but you can guess, can’t you? I see by your face that you have already." The slight trace of a working class accent made the words, so carefully strung together, sound incongruous. Somehow, that made the encounter more sinister as if it was someone ‘not Peter’ speaking to me from Peter’s lips.

He lifted his hand and I could see he held the Book. Almost gently he reached out with his free arm and stroked the hair from my forehead. The air seemed thick as treacle as I tried to flinch from his cold touch, and he smiled.

"No, stay, my Lady. It is all nothing without you, you know." He traced a sign on my brow with his finger. It felt wet, sticky, dead. Somehow I managed to get my arm up, to push at him, but all it met was empty air.

I sat up, blinking groggily as the sun filtered through the blinds. My radio alarm was playing something from Sergeant Pepper, although I couldn’t remember hearing it go on. If I hurried, I would have just enough time to get to the airport before he cleared customs.

©2000 by Trish Reynolds