Picnic At Lac Du Sang
      



      by Graham Masterton


      'The girls here are very young,' said Baubay, taking a last deep drag at 
      his cigarette and flicking it out of the Pontiac's window. 'But let me 
      tell you, they'll do anything.' 

      Vincent frowned across the street at the large Gothic-revival house. It 
      wasn't at all what he had expected a brothel to look like. It was heavily 
      overshadowed by three giant dark-green elms, but he could see turrets and 
      spires and decorated gables, and balconies where net curtains suggestively 
      billowed in the summer breeze. The outside walls were painted a burned 
      orange colour, and there was something strange and other-worldly about the 
      whole place, as if he had seen it in a painting, or dreamed it. 
      'I'm not so sure about this,' he told Baubay. 'I never visited a bordello 
      before.' 
      'Bordello!' Baubay piffed. 'This is simply a very amenable place where 
      guys like us can meet beautiful and willing young women, discuss the state 
      of the economy, have a bottle of champagne or two, play Trivial Pursuit, 
      and if we feel like it, get laid.' 
      'Sounds like a bordello to me,' said Vincent, trying to make a joke of it. 

      'You're not going to chicken out on me, are you? Don't say you're going to 
      chicken out. Come on, Vincent, I've driven over eighty miles for this, and 
      I'm not going back to Montreal without at least one game of hide the 
      salami.' 
      'It's just that I feel like - I don't know. I feel like I'm being 
      unfaithful.' 
      'Bullshit! How can you be unfaithful to a woman who walked out on you? How 
      can you be unfaithful when she was screwing a crott like Michael 
      Saperstein?' 
      'I don't know, but it just feels that way. Come on, Baubay, I never looked 
      at another woman for eleven years. Well, I looked, but I didn't do 
      anything about it.' 
      'So - after all those years of sainthood, you deserve to indulge yourself 
      a little. You won't regret it, believe me. You'll he coming back for more. 
      Hey - with your tongue dragging on the sidewalk.' 
      'I don't know. Is there a restaurant or something around here? Maybe I'll 
      have some lunch and wait for you.' 
      Baubay unfastened his seatbelt and took his keys out of the ignition. 
      'Absolutely emphatically no you are not. How do you expect me to enjoy 
      fornicating with some ripe young teenager while all the time I know that 
      you're sitting alone in some dreary diner eating Salisbury steak? What 
      kind of friend would that make me? You're not backing out of this, 
      Vincent. You're coming to meet Madame Leduc whether you like it or not.' 
      'Well, I'll meet her, okay?' Vincent agreed. 'But whether I do anything 
      else - ' 
      Baubay took him by the elbow as if he were a blind man and propelled him 
      to the opposite sidewalk. The morning was glazed and warm and there was 
      hardly any traffic. The house stood in the older part of St 
      Michel-des-Monts, in a street which was still respectable but which was 
      suffering from obvious neglect. The house next door was empty, its windows 
      shuttered and its front door hoarded up, its garden a tangle of weeds and 
      wild poppies. Behind the houses, through a blueish haze, Vincent could see 
      the mountains of Mont Blanc, Mont Tremblant, and beyond. 
      They climbed the stone steps to the front door and Baubay gave a smart, 
      enthusiastic knock. The door was painted a sun-faded blue, and the paint 
      had cracked like the surface of an old master. The knocker was bronze, and 
      cast in the shape of a snarling wolf's head. 
      'See that?' said Baubay. 'That was supposed to keep evil spirits at bay. 
      They're quite rare, now.' 
      They waited and waited and eventually Baubay knocked again. After a while 
      they heard a door open and piano music, Mozart, and a woman's voice. 
      Vincent felt butterflies in his stomach, and he had a ridiculous childish 
      urge to run away. Baubay winked at him and said, 'This'll be Madame Leduc 
      now.' 
      The front door was opened by a tall, ash-blonde woman with her hair 
      braided on top of her head. She was wearing a long silk neglige in pale 
      aquamarine, trimmed with lace. She must have been 45 at least but she was 
      extraordinarily beautiful, with a fine, slightly Nordic-looking face, and 
      eyes that were such a pale, washed-out blue that they were scarcely any 
      colour at all. Her neglige was open almost to her waist, revealing a deep 
      cleavage in which a large marcasite crucifix nestled. Judging by the way 
      her breasts swung, she must have heen naked underneath. 
      'Francois, what a pleasure,' she said. Her accent was faintly Qubcois, 
      very precise and refined. 'And - how exciting! You've brought your friend 
      with you today.' 
      'I couldn't keep you all to myself, could I?' asked Baubay. 'Violette, 
      this is Vincent Jeffries. He's a very talented man. A great musician. 
      Like, eat your heart out, Johann Sebastian Bach.' 
      Mme Leduc held out her hand so that it slightly drooped, and Vincent 
      realised that she expected him to kiss it. He did so, and when he lifted 
      his eyes he saw that she was smiling at him in amusement. Baubay said, 
      'Let's go inside. I could do some serious damage to a bottle of cold 
      champagne.' 
      They stepped into the hallway and Mme Leduc closed the door behind them, 
      blotting out the sunshine. 'The tall one and the short one,' she remarked, 
      and then she gave a brittle, tinkling laugh. Baubay laughed too, like a 
      dog barking, and gave her a pat on the bottom. His shortness had never 
      given him any trouble with wommen, or so he said, and Vincent believed 
      him, because he was always packed with energy and he was quite handsome in 
      a roughly-cut, unfinished way, with a square jaw and thick eyebrows and 
      thick black curls. Apart from being taller, Vincent was much thinner and 
      quieter, with blondish combed-back hair and a narrow, rather aquiline 
      face, and a way of peering at people as if they were standing six or seven 
      miles away. When she had first met him, Patricia had said that he looked 
      like Lawrence of Arabia, trying to see through the glitter of a distant 
      mirage. In the end, their marriage had turned out to be the mirage. 
      'So, you're a great musician, Mr Jeffries?' asked Mme Leduc. 'Some of my 
      girls are learning the piano. You will have to give them some pointers.' 
      'Francois is exaggerating, as usual,' said Vincent. 'I write scores for 
      television commercials - incidental music, links, stuff like that. Do you 
      know the Downhome Donut music? That was mine. Right now Francois and I are 
      working on a Labatt's beer ad together.' 
      'You should hear what he's written!' said Baubay. 'Is it dramatic? Is it 
      sweeping? Do bears go to the woods to dress up as women?' 
      They entered a large, high-ceilinged living room. It probably overlooked 
      the garden, but Vincent couldn't tell because all the windows were tightly 
      covered by bleached white calico blinds, through which the sunlight 
      filtered as softly as the memory of a long-lost summer day. The floor was 
      pale polished hardwood, with antique scatter-rugs, and the furniture was 
      all antique, too, gilded and upholstered in creams and yellows. There were 
      huge mirrors everywhere, which at first gave Vincent the impression that 
      he had walked into a room crowded with fifteen or sixteen girls. 
      Madame Leduc clapped her hands and called, 'Attention, mes petites! Mr 
      Baubay has arrived and he has brought a friend for us to entertain!' 
      Immediately, the girls came forward and clustered around them. Now Vincent 
      could see that there were only seven of them, but he still felt 
      overwhelmed, and more than anything else he wished that he were someplace 
      else. He had never been simultaneously so aroused and so embarrassed in 
      his whole life. All of the girls were pretty: two or three of them were 
      almost as beautiful as Mme Leduc. There was a redhead with skin as white 
      as milk, and a long-haired brunette with dark slanting eyes that he could 
      have drowned in. There were three blondes - one bubbly and curly, the 
      other tall and mysterious with hair so long that she could have wrapped 
      herself in it, like a silky curtain. There was another brunette who stood 
      more shyly behind her friends, but she had a face so perfect that Vincent 
      couldn't take his eyes off her. 
      What struck him most of all, though, was the way in which the girls were 
      dressed. He didn't quite know what he had expected: Fredericks of 
      Hollywood lingerie, maybe, or satin wraps like the one that Mme Leduc was 
      wearing. But they all wore plain white cotton nightdresses, almost 
      ankle-length, and one of them was even wearing white socks. Vincent 
      supposed that Mme Leduc had wanted them to look younger than they really 
      were, like schoolgirls; but even so none of them could have been older 
      than 18 or 19. 
      'Mr Jeffries is a musician, girls,' Mme Leduc announced. 'Perhaps he'll be 
      kind enough to play for us while we bring him something to drink.' She 
      winked at Baubay, and Vincent saw her wink. She must have sensed how 
      nervous he was, and, yes, it was a good idea, asking him to play the 
      piano. It would help to relax him. 'You like champagne, Mr Jeffries? Or 
      may I call you Vincent?' 
      'Sure you can call me Vincent. But right I think I'd prefer a beer, if you 
      don't mind.' 
      'Anything you want,' she said. She looked into his eyes for almost ten 
      seconds without saying anything. Her eyes were extraordinary, like blue 
      ink that has spilled across the surface of a mirror. He dropped his gaze 
      and found himself looking at the cross that dangled in her cleavage. He 
      could smell the perfume that she exuded from between her breasts. It was 
      very summery and flowery, and for some reason it made him think of - what? 
      He couldn't think. Something elusive. Something deeply emotional. 
      Something that had happened a long time ago. 
      One of the girls came up and took his coat. Another loosened his necktie. 
      'You like this?' said Baubay, walking up and down the room. 'This is what 
      I call pampering.' 
      'Please, play,' said the redhead, shyly, and pulled out the piano-stool 
      for him. Vincent sat down, flexed his fingers, and played one of his 
      party-pieces, a high-speed version of Camptown Races. The girls laughed 
      and clapped when he had finished, and one of the blondes kissed him on the 
      cheek. The blonde with the long hair, more daring and more sensual, kissed 
      him directly on the mouth. 'Francois is right. You are a great musician. 
      Your music is terrible - but you - you are a great musician.' Bold words, 
      he thought, almost frightening. But he had never had an erection while 
      sitting at the piano before, as he did now. He could feel the warmth of 
      the girl's body through her plain white nightdress. It was unbuttoned, and 
      he could see the curve of a small swelling breast. 
      Mme Leduc brought him a golden glass of beer in a frozen glass. He drank a 
      little, and then be played something slower, more sentimental, a score he 
      had written for a poem. The blonde with the long hair came and sat next to 
      him, and put her arm around him, but he played this song for the brunette 
      who stood away from the others, her eyes lowered, her fingers trailing 
      through her hair. 
        'In your arms was still delight ... quiet as a street at night; 
        And thoughts of you, I do remember, 
        Were green leaves in a darkened chamber, 
        Were dark clouds in a moonless sky.'
      The blonde girl massaged his shoulders, and then ran her fingers all the 
      way down his spine. The redhead stood behind him and stroked his hair. On 
      the opposite side of the room, Baubay sat with one of the curly blondes on 
      his knee and another kneeling on the floor beside him. He lifted his glass 
      of champagne and gave Vincent a blissful beam. 'Don't tell me this isn't 
      the life, my friend. This is the life.' 
      'Love, in you, went passing by,' sang Vincent. He looked toward the 
      brunette and she was lifting her hair so that it shone in the 
      softly-filtered sunlight in a fine net of filaments. He didn't know 
      whether she knew that he was looking at her or not. He didn't know whether 
      she was flirting with him or not. She appeared to be indifferent, and yet 
      - 
        'Love, in you, went passing by, ... penetrative, remote, and rare, 
        Like a bird in the wide air, 
        And, as the bird, it left no trace...'
      He paused, and then he sang, very quietly, 'In the heaven ... of your 
      face.' 
      There was a momentary silence, and then Mme Leduc pattered her hands 
      together like a pigeon trapped in a chimney. 'You weave quite a spell, 
      Vincent. You must play us some more.' 
      'Why doesn't one of your girls play? I'd like to hear them.' 
      'Well, of course. I'm forgetting myself. You didn't come here to entertain 
      us. Minette, why don't you play Curiose Geschichte for Mr Jeffries? 
      Minette's been practicing very hard this month. And, Sophie, why don't you 
      dance?' 
      Vincent left the piano and the girl with the long blonde hair guided him 
      over to the couch next to Baubay's, and sat down almost in his lap. She 
      stroked his thigh through his chino pants and then she cupped her hand 
      right between his legs, and squeezed it. He looked up at her but all she 
      did was kiss him all over his face. He had drunk less than half of his 
      beer but already he was beginning to feel that he had lost touch with 
      reality. His cock was so hard that it ached and it just wouldn't go down. 
      Minette was one of the curly blondes. She sat at the piano with her eyes 
      closed and played the slow, plaintive notes with perfect timing and 
      inflection. Mme Leduc was right: she had been practicing hard. She was 
      almost concert standard. But if she could play like this, what was she 
      doing here, in this Godforsaken Canadian suburb, selling herself to any 
      man who wanted her? 
      Sophie, the redhead, stood in the middle of the floor with her toes 
      pointed like a ballerina. Then she swept her arms down, gathered the hem 
      of her nightdress, and drew it over her head. It landed on the rug with a 
      soft parachute rustle, leaving Sophie completely naked. She was 
      full-breasted but she was very slim, with narrow hips and long, long legs. 
      Her breasts were marbled with blueish veins and her nipples were a 
      startling pink that clashed with her hair. Between her legs arose a bright 
      red flame, although it did little to conceal the plumpness of her labia. 
      Sophie danced: fast, and very stylistically, Isadora Duncan on speed. She 
      waved her arms as if she were spinning through a storm and her breasts 
      responded with a wild, complicated dance of their own. She whirled around 
      the room, around and around. Then she covered her face with her hands and 
      knelt on the floor only two or three feet away from Vincent. She swayed 
      from side to side, staring at him as she did so, until he felt hypnotised. 
      Then she slowly arched backward until her shoulders were touching the rug, 
      and the lips of her vulva peeled apart, revealing the glistening depths of 
      her vagina. 
      As if this wasn't enough, she reached down between her legs and pulled her 
      lips even farther apart, exposing the tiny hole of her urethra, playing 
      with her clitoris and sliding her long, maniciured fingertips right inside 
      her. The piano music. The succulent clicking of fingers and juice. 
      Vincent was breathless. As he watched, and he couldn't help watching, the 
      blonde girl was gripping his cock through his pants, squeezing it hard and 
      rhythmically, and he knew that if he didn't make her stop, he was going to 
      be finished before he had even begun. 
      Suddenly Minette stood up and the music wasn't there any more. Sophie 
      rolled away across the rug. Mme Leduc's hands pattered together again. 
      'Now, perhaps, a little something to eat, before we get down to the 
      principal entertainment of the day?' 
      Vincent was trying unsuccessfully to fend off the blonde, who was licking 
      his neck with the flat of her tongue and trying to slide her hand down the 
      front of his pants. 'You're wet,' she breathed. 'Your shorts are wet. I 
      can feel it.' 
      'Yes, food!' Baubay enthused. 'I hope you made some of your crabcakes, 
      Violette! Vincent, you should try Violette's crabcakes! And her 
      andouilles!' 
      'I want to try your andouille,' the blonde breathed in Vincent's ear, and 
      then draped her hair all over his head, so that he was tangled in it, 
      suffocated in it. 


      They sat at a long table covered in an extravagantly long white linen 
      cloth that poured over their knees and trailed across the floor. The 
      windows of this room, too, were covered by bleached white blinds. Mme 
      Leduc sat at the head of the table, and the girls sat along either side. 
      Vincent and Baubay sat side by side, each of them being cossetted and 
      spoonfed by the girls next to them. The food was like nothing that Vincent 
      had ever eaten before: not all at the same meal, anyway. Cold spiced beef 
      and fruit-flavoured jellies; salads with endive and oranges; crabcakes 
      served with fragments of honeycomb. There was a strange fried flatfish 
      stuffed with peaches, and bowls of clear chilled soup that tasted like 
      women's sexual juices lightly flavoured with cilantro. 
      The shy brunette sat on the opposite end of the table, eating only a 
      little and saying nothing at all. Vincent deliberately stared at her while 
      he ate, but she never once raised her eyes to look at him. The blonde 
      sitting next to him reached beneath the flowing tablecloth and started to 
      massage him between the legs again. When he was hard, she jerkily tugged 
      down his zipper and took out his erection, her fingers running up and down 
      it like a piccolo player. He suddenly realised that he was beginning to 
      enjoy himself. 
      'Do you think you could love me?' she asked him, in a hoarse, dirty 
      whisper. 
      He kissed her on the lips. 'You don't exactly make it easy to say no.' 
      'But do you think you could really love me? Or any of us?' 
      'What? And marry you? And take you away from all this?' 
      She shook her head. 'You could never do that, ever.' 
      'But you're not going to do this for the rest of your life, are you? I 
      mean, how old are you?' 
      'Eighteen.' 
      'There you are, then. One day you'll meet the right guy, and you'll be 
      able to put all of this behind you.' 
      Again she shook her head. Vincent tried to kiss her again, but this time 
      she raised her fingertips and pressed them against his lips. 
      Mme Leduc stood up and tapped her spoon against her wine-glass, so that it 
      rang. 'There!' she said. 'We have fed very well ... now for some other 
      pleasures. Francois, have you chosen who you would like to share your 
      afternoon?' 
      Baubay put his arm around Sophie's shoulders. 'I can never resist a 
      redhead, Violette, especially when she is a redtail, too.' 
      'And perhaps Minette to accompany her?' asked Mme Leduc. 
      'Wonderful! But not on the piano, this time!' 
      Baubay got up from the table, and took Sophie and Minette by the hand. 
      Giggling, they led him out of the dining-room, into the hallway, and up 
      the stairs. Vincent could hear them laughing all the way along the 
      landing. 
      'Vincent, how about you?' asked Mme Leduc. 'Has any one of my girls caught 
      your eye yet?' 
      The blonde gave him a dreamy, creamy look, and rubbed his penis again. 
      Vincent didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he was too fascinated by the 
      shy brunette. He nodded down the table and said, 'I don't even know her 
      name, but if she doesn't mind - ?' 
      The blonde immediately pushed his erection back into his pants and tugged 
      up his zipper, almost catching him in it. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said, 'I 
      think you're stunning, but - ' 
      'But you prefer Catherine, I know. I've seen you staring at her.' 
      'Catherine?' said Vincent, and the girl looked toward him and nodded, 
      although she didn't smile. Vincent stood up and walked along the length of 
      the table and held out his hand. 
      'This is only if you want to,' he said. 
      'It is not her place to say if she wants to or not,' said Mme Leduc, with 
      a slight snap in her voice. 
      Catherine stood up, gathering up her white nightdress in front of her so 
      that it was raised above her knees. Vincent had never seen a girl so 
      beautiful or so quietly alluring, and he had certainly never met a girl so 
      subservient. She had a high, rounded forehead and huge violet eyes. Her 
      nose was straight with just a hint of a tilt at the end. Her lips were 
      full, as if she were pouting a little, but that suggestion of sulkiness 
      only aroused Vincent all the more. 
      'One girl will be sufficient?' asked Mme Leduc. 
      'Am I allowed to come back for seconds?' 
      Mme Leduc came up close to him and ran her hand up the back of his head, 
      like rubbing a cat's fur the wrong way. It was an electrifying feeling, 
      especially since he could feel her breast swaying against him through the 
      silk of her neglige. 
      'Perhaps next time, I can amuse you myself.' 
      God, thought Vincent. Baubay was right. I feel like I've died and gone to 
      heaven. 
      Without a word, Catherine took his hand and led him out of the room. She 
      walked quite quickly on her pale bare feet, as if she were in a hurry. Her 
      hand was small and cool. She didn't lead him upstairs, but across the 
      hallway and along a corridor with a polished parquet floor. The corridor 
      was light, but all of the windows were covered with the same white blinds. 

      They reached a door at the end of the corridor and Catherine opened it. 
      Inside, Vincent found himself in a large downstairs bedroom. In the very 
      centre stood an iron-framed four-poster bed, draped with yards and yards 
      of white gauze curtains, and covered in giant-sized white feather pillows. 
      The only other furniture was a chaise-longue upholstered in plain cream 
      calico, a French-style closet painted in dragged white paint, a washbasin, 
      and a cheval mirror at the end of the bed, tilted in such a way that 
      whoever was lying on the bed could see themselves. On one wall hung a 
      large, vividly-coloured painting of a woman in a pearl necklace, 
      lasciviously clutching a horse's erect penis, and staring directly at the 
      viewer as if she were challenging everything be believed in. 
      Catherine closed the door. She walked across to the bed and drew back the 
      curtains. Then, without turning around, she lifted off her nightdress, so 
      that she was naked. She had a long, flared back, and very high, rounded 
      buttocks. Her breasts were so big that Vincent could see the half-moon 
      curves of them on either side. 
      However it was when she turned around that be had the greatest shock. He 
      saw now why she had gathered up her nightdress when she stood up from the 
      table. She had been concealing the fact that she was at least five or six 
      months' pregnant. Her breasts were enormously swollen and big-nippled, and 
      her stomach was like a lunar globe. Her vulva was swollen, too. She had 
      shaved herself so that Vincent could see the dark blush colour of her 
      lips. 
      Pregnant she might have been, but Vincent still thought she was achingly 
      beautiful. In fact, her pregnancy made her look even more beautiful. That 
      was why her hair shone. That was why her skin glowed. That was why she had 
      the secretive, knowing, self-protective look that had attracted Vincent in 
      the first place. 
      She came up to him and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He looked 
      down at her - at her calm, perfect face; at the trees of pale blue veins 
      in her breasts; at her stiffened, rouge-brown nipples. 
      'How old are you?' he asked her, with a phlegmy catch in his throat. 
      'Eighteen-and-a-half,' she replied, unfastening another button, and 
      another, and running her fingernails lightly through the hair on his 
      chest. 
      'You're having a baby, and yet you're still doing this?' 
      'What else can I do?' 
      'You can contact your local department of welfare, for starters. You can 
      get all kinds of financial help. You're a single mother-to-be, for 
      Christ's sake, you're entitled. You don't have to work for Madame Leduc.' 
      'But I do.' 
      'No, listen to me, you don't. This really isn't suitable work for anybody 
      who's pregnant.' 
      She looked up at him. 'So what are you trying to tell me? That you 
      wouldn't have picked me if you'd known that I was fat?' 
      'You're not fat, you're pregnant, and if you want to know the truth I find 
      you extremely attractive. But this isn't socially responsible.' 
      'You don't want me, then? You want Eloise instead? Or Martine?' 
      'I didn't say that. I simply said that in your condition you shouldn't be 
      working in a bordello.' 
      'I don't have any choice.' 
      'Yes, you do. You do have a choice. There are plenty of people you can 
      turn to. I mean, what about your parents?' 
      She looked away. 'Dead, both of them.' 
      'Brothers or sisters? Aunts or uncles?' 
      She shook her head. 
      'Then, listen, maybe I can help you.' 
      She said, 'I don't want you to help me. I don't want you even to try. This 
      is what I do. This is what I am. Other men have offered to help me, too, 
      and every time I have to tell them the same thing.' 
      Vincent didn't what to do. He walked over to the white-blinded window and 
      then he walked back again. 
      'You came here for pleasure,' said Catherine, standing exposed in front of 
      him, making no attempt to hide her complete nakedness with her hands. 'Why 
      don't you enjoy it while you're here?' 
      She came up to him and stood close so that her distended stomach touched 
      the bulge in his pants. 'Pleasing men is what I do best. I got pregnant, 
      pleasing a man. Let me please you too.' 
      'I don't know. I - ' 
      She kissed his chest. She unbuttoned the last of his shirt buttons and 
      then she started to unbuckle his belt. 
      'What about the baby?' he said, weakening. 'Isn't it dangerous or 
      anything?' 
      'There's plenty of room inside me,' she said, pulling down his zipper. 
      'Once I had three men inside me all at once, and baby, too.' Without any 
      hesitation, she wrested his rising cock out of his shorts, and pushed him 
      back toward the bed. He sat down on it, and she dragged off his pants and 
      his socks. 
      'Listen,' he said, 'maybe a blowjob'll do it ... I don't want to take any 
      risks.' But he could hear his own voice and he knew how ineffectual he 
      sounded. He wanted her desperately, he wanted her so much that his cock 
      was visibly pulsing with every heartbeat. She pressed him down so that he 
      was lying amongst all of those white downy cushions, and then she knelt 
      beside him and took his cock into her mouth, running her tongue around his 
      shiny purple helmet, sucking at it, licking it, and then sliding her 
      tongue all the way down to his walnut-crinkled balls. 
      From where he was lying he could see underneath her body, her big swaying 
      breasts, her rounded stomach. He reached out and cupped her breasts, 
      feeling her rigid nipples brushing against his palms. Then he smoothed his 
      hands around her stomach. He was surprised how hard it was, how tight it 
      was. He thought to himself: another man has fucked her, and left life 
      inside her, and here it is, growing. Although he couldn't understand why, 
      he found the idea of it unbelievably erotic. 
      As she sucked him, he looked down the length of the bed toward the cheval 
      mirror, and through the curtains of her hair he could see her lips 
      enclosing his red, glistening shaft. She glanced up, and caught sight of 
      his reflection. She smiled, and gave the head of his cock a long, 
      lascivious lick. 
      In return, he lifted her right leg so that she was kneeling right over 
      him. Right in front of him was her smooth crimson vulva, her lips 
      thickened with pregnancy, her vagina flooded with juice. He buried his 
      face in it like a man burying his face into a watermelon, licking as deep 
      inside her as he could, then taking whole mouthfuls of her and sucking her 
      until she let his cock out of her mouth and gasped, and pushed her lips 
      even more forcefully into his face. 
      He lost all awareness of time. He gave her one orgasm after another, until 
      her stomach was rock-hard and he was afraid that she was going to give 
      birth. At the same time, she played with him, bringing him right to the 
      edge of ejaculation and then letting him subside, until his balls ached 
      and he was right on the edge of anger. 
      The bedroom was dark when she led him over to the chaise-longue and made 
      him lie on his back. She straddled him, looking down at him, and it was so 
      gloomy now that he couldn't see her face beneath the shadows of her hair. 
      He could smell her, though. Her sex and her perfume and the same smell 
      that he had detected on Mme Leduc: the smell of memories. 
      'I think you should make love to me properly,' she whispered. 'It's what 
      you want, isn't it, to share my body with my baby?' 
      He half-rose, saying, 'I can't.' But she pushed him back again. She took 
      hold of his erect penis and positioned herself right over it. She rubbed 
      the head of his penis backward and forward between her lips until it was 
      slippery with juice. 'You want to meet my baby?' she teased him. 'Don't 
      tell me that you don't want to meet my baby.' 
      She sank down on him, until he was buried right inside the warm elastic 
      tightness of her body. She leaned forward so that her nipples touched his 
      chest, and then she kissed him, and made a snorting sound of satisfaction 
      in his ear. He felt her child kick and stir against his penis and he 
      climaxed with such violence that his whole world went dark. 


      It was almost eight o'clock when he left her sleeping on the four-poster 
      bed. He dressed, and crept out, taking one last look at her. She was lying 
      on her back with her hand lying idly between her legs, her hair fanned out 
      across one of the pillows. It unnerved him to think that he had probably 
      started to fall in love with her. He knew for sure that he would have to 
      see her again. You can't have an encounter like this and just forget about 
      it, just let it go. 
      He had never experienced an afternoon like it in his life. The way she had 
      eaten his balls as if they were fruit. The way she had rubbed him until he 
      had climaxed all over her breasts, and it had dripped from her nipples 
      like milk. 
      'I want to feed my baby, when it's born,' she had told him, massaging his 
      sperm around and around. 
      'So when will that be, exactly?' 
      'I looked at my horoscope and my horoscope said soon.' 
      'What about your gynecologist?' 
      She had frowned at him as if she didn't understand what he meant. 
      He walked hack along the gloomy corridor feeling both elated and deeply 
      guilty. He loved her, he wanted her, but he knew that he had to save her, 
      too. He had to save her from Mme Leduc. Most of all he had to save her 
      from men like him. 
      He had almost reached the hallway when he saw the shield-shaped plaque on 
      the wall. He stopped, and peered at it, like Lawrence of Arabia peering at 
      a mirage. It said 'cole St Agathe, fonde 1923,' and underneath the 
      lettering was an emblem of a goose flying from a blood-red lake. 
      He was still peering at it when a voice said, 'Did you have a good time, 
      Vincent?' He turned to see Mme Leduc standing in the hallway. He didn't 
      know whether it was the dim evening light or maybe his own sexual 
      satiation that made her look older, much older, and far less beautiful. 
      She looked rather like the Snow Queen, from the story that his mother used 
      to tell him when he was young, frigid and stern. 
      'I had a very good time, thank you,' he told her, 'Well ... let's put it 
      this way, I had a very interesting time.' 
      She reached out and stroked his cheek. Her colourless eyes were almost 
      sad. 
      'Why do you - ' he began, and hesitated. Then he managed to say, 'Why do 
      you do this? These girls, they're all so young. They have so much in front 
      of them ... so much life to lead.' 
      'You disapprove,' she said. 'I thought, from the moment that I opened the 
      door, that you would disapprove.' 
      'It's not that I disapprove. It's more like I don't understand.' 
      She gave him a smile like diluted milk. She unfolded and refolded her 
      neglige and gave him the briefest flash of heavy white breasts, with 
      areolas the colour of rose-petals, as they turn to brown. 
      'It isn't necessary for you to understand, Vincent. All you have to do is 
      to enjoy yourself, and pay.' 


      'I mean, how did you discover this place?' Vincent asked Baubay, as they 
      drove back toward Montreal along the Laurentian Autoroute. 'It's great, 
      I'll grant you that, but it's so strange.' 
      'What's strange about it? I think it's very normal. I went to a club in 
      San Francisco where everybody was jerking off all over the place and there 
      were three guys trying to make out with a one-legged woman. You've been 
      closeted, Vincent. You don't know the half of what goes on. Group sex, 
      leather clubs, bestiality. Compared to all of that, Mme Leduc is 
      respectability itself.' 
      'So how did you find it?' 
      'Some guy at Dane Shearman Philips told me about it. Mme Leduc encourages 
      her clients to pass on her card to anybody who might appreciate what she 
      has to offer.' 
      'Seven young girls, not much more than eighteen years old. One of them six 
      months' pregnant.' 
      'Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it. Don't tell me you won't he going 
      back.' 
      Vincent said nothing, but looked ahead at the glittering lights of 
      downtown Montreal. It looked unreal, like a city painted on the sky. 


      And of course he did go back, only three days later, and on his own this 
      time. The hot weather had broken into a thunderous electric storm, and 
      even though he parked his rental car right outside the house he was soaked 
      by the time he reached the porch. He was still drying his face with his 
      handkerchief when the door opened and Mme Leduc appeared - dressed in a 
      robe of peach-coloured silk. 
      'Why Vincent. I didn't expect you so soon.' 
      'I should have called, I know, but I didn't know your number.' 
      'And you didn't want to ask Francois for it, because you didn't want 
      Francois to know that you were coming here?' 
      Vincent gave an awkward shrug. 'I just wanted to see Catherine, that's 
      all. Well, I wanted to see you, too.' 
      'You'd better come in, then,' she said, as another deafening burst of 
      thunder shook the roof of the house. 
      Vincent followed her inside. 'I'm worried about Catherine, if you must 
      know. I haven't been able to get her off my mind.' 
      'You're not the first.' 
      'It's just that it isn't right, a pregnant girl having unprotected sex 
      with strange men. Think of the infections she could pick up. Think of the 
      baby.' 
      'You had sex with her.' 
      'Yes, I did. And I feel more guilty about it than I can possibly tell 
      you.' 
      'So what do you propose to do?' 
      'I propose to make you an offer. Let me take Catherine away from here so 
      that she can have her baby someplace quiet and comfortable, with a decent 
      clinic nearby. I'll make sure you're not out of pocket. If you work out 
      her potential earnings for, say, the next six months, I'll pay you in 
      advance.' 
      Mme Leduc took him through to the living-room. The blinds were still drawn 
      tight and it was so gloomy that he could barely see her. 'Why don't you 
      sit down?' she asked him. 'Would you like some tea, or a glass of wine?' 
      'No, no thank you. I just want to hear you say that Catherine can come 
      with me.' 
      Mme Leduc stood facing the mirror over the fireplace, so that Vincent 
      could see only her dim reflection. 'I'm afraid that's impossible, Vincent. 
      None of us can leave this house, ever.' 
      'Why the hell not? What happens when the girls get older, and lose their 
      looks? You can't run a cathouse with a collection of senior citizens, can 
      you?' 
      Mme Leduc was silent for a long time. Then she said, 'If I tell you why 
      Catherine can't leave, will you promise me that you'll leave here, and 
      never come back, and forget all about her?' 
      'How can I make a promise like that?' 
      'It's for her own good, that's why.' 
      'Well, I don't know. I'll think about it, okay? That's as far as I'm 
      prepared to go.' 
      'Very well,' said Mme Leduc. 'I suppose that'll have to do.' She turned 
      around and came toward him, standing so close that he could have lifted 
      his hand and touched her face. 'A long time ago, in the 1920s, this used 
      to be a school, an academy for young girls.' 
      'I saw the notice-board in the corridor. St Agathe's, right?' 
      'That's right. It was quite a famous school, and diplomats and wealthy 
      businessmen used to send their daughters here during the summer to learn 
      cookery and dressmaking and riding and all the social skills.' 
      'I see. Kind of a finishing school.' 
      Mme Leduc nodded. 'One July day, in 1924, some of the girls were taken by 
      their teacher to Lac du Sang, for a picnic. Lac du Sang is a local beauty 
      spot, and very beautiful it is, too. They call it Lac du Sang because it's 
      surrounded by maples, and in the fall, when the leaves turn red, the lake 
      reflects them, and looks as if it's filled with blood. They say it was a 
      magic place, a sacred place, where even the Indians would never venture. 
      'Anyway, the girls set out their picnic and the day was perfect There was 
      never such a day in the history of days. The lake, the trees, the sky so 
      blue that it could have been ceramic. The teacher stood up and looked 
      around at her girls and said, "What a perfect, perfect day. I wish we 
      could all stay young forever. I wish the day could last for twenty-four 
      years, instead of twenty-four hours."' 
      Mme Leduc stood looking at Vincent and Vincent waited for her to continue, 
      but she didn't. After a while, he said, 'Go on. She wished that it would 
      last for twenty-four years. Then what?' 
      'Then it did.' 
      Another long pause. 'I don't understand,' said Vincent. 
      'It's not difficult,' said Mme Leduc. 'The day lasted for twenty-four 
      years. At least, it did for them. The sun stayed high in the sky and they 
      didn't notice the time passing by. It was all like a dream. When at last 
      they returned to the school they found that it was closed, and that all 
      their friends had gone. It was no longer 1924. It was 1948.' 
      She went over to a rosewood bureau on the opposite side of the room and 
      returned with a yellowed newspaper. 'Here,' she said. 'This is what 
      happened.' 
      It was a copy of The St Michel-des-Monts Sentinel. The front-page headline 
      read SEARCH FOR ST AGATHE GIRLS CALLED OFF - Little Hope Of Finding 
      Missing 9 And Teacher, Say Mounties. 
      Vincent read the first paragraph. 'Police now believe there is little or 
      no hope of them ever finding the teacher and nine girls from St Agathe's 
      Academy who went missing three months ago on a picnic at Lac du Sang. The 
      entire area has been thoroughly searched and there is no evidence to 
      suggest that they all ran away together or that their disappearnace is a 
      practical joke. RCMP inspector Ren Truchaud called the Lac du Sang 
      incident, "The greatest single mystery in Canadian police history."' 
      Mme Leduc said, 'They came looking for us on the day after we disappeared, 
      but of course we weren't there. To them, we were still in yesterday, still 
      lying in the grass by the lake.' 
      'It was you? It was you and your girls?' 
      Mme Leduc gave him a sad, elegant nod. 'We had a day like no other day has 
      ever been; or ever will be. But we came back here and found that half of 
      our lives had passed us by. I still don't know what happened to us; or 
      why. I still don't know whether it was supposed to be a gift or a curse. 
      But the first part of my wish came true, too, and so long as we stay here, 
      inside the house, we remain as we were, all those years ago. It's almost 
      as if my wish diverted us out of the stream of time, into a backwater, and 
      that me and my seven girls are doomed or blessed to stay here forever.' 
      'It says here nine girls.' 
      'Yes ... there were nine. Two of them left - Sara five years ago, and 
      Imogene just before Christmas. Sara tried to come back but she didn't look 
      like a young girl any longer. Time had caught up with her, and aged her 
      over forty years in a single week. I received a letter from Imogene. Only 
      two lines. Do you want to read it?' 
      She passed over a sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded until 
      it was soft. The handwriting on it was so crabbed and spidery that Vincent 
      could barely decipher it. It said, 'Chre Mme Leduc, I am very old and 
      close to death. Tell all of the girls that I will wait for them in 
      Heaven.' 
      Mme Leduc said, 'It appears that the further time leaves us behind, the 
      quicker we will age if we try to leave. So ... the rest of us decided to 
      stay.' 
      'I can't believe any of this,' said Vincent. 'Days can't last for 
      twenty-four years. People don't stay young forever. Who are you kidding? 
      You're just trying to stop me from taking Catherine away from you. All you 
      care about is how much you can make out of her. A pregnant teenager, what 
      an attraction! Jesus, if you cared about any of these girls you wouldn't 
      be selling their bodies to every lecherous old guy with a fat enough 
      wallet.' 
      'You exclude yourself from that category, I suppose,' said Mme Leduc. 
      'I was tempted, I admit it. She's a beautiful girl, she tempted me. But 
      that doesn't stop me from trying to put things right.' 
      'Vincent ... has it occurred to you that this is the only way in which we 
      can make a living? None of us can leave the house, so what else are we 
      supposed to do? We may stay young forever, but we still need to eat; and 
      we still have bills to pay.' 
      Vincent laughed and then abruptly stopped laughing. He looked at Mme Leduc 
      and said, 'You're seriously crazy, you know that? If you really believe 
      that you disappeared in 1924 for twenty-four years and that you're never 
      going to grow old ... well, I don't know. I'd just like us know what stuff 
      you're on.' 
      At that moment Catherine walked into the room in her long white nightgown. 
      Her hair was tied back and she looked especially young and vulnerable. It 
      had only been three days since Vincent had seen her, but he had forgotten 
      how mezmerizing she was. The way she looked up at him from underneath her 
      long, long eyelashes. The way she pouted. The way her breasts moved 
      underneath the fresh-pressed cotton. 
      Mme Leduc took hold of her hand. 'Mr Jeffries here wanted to take you away 
      with him, Catherine. I had to explain why he couldn't.' 
      'And of course I believed every word,' said Vincent. 'That must have been 
      some picnic, out at Lac du Sang. Don't tell me you didn't run short of 
      sandwiches - you know, in twenty-four years?' 
      Mme Leduc said, 'Why don't you take Vincent to your room, Catherine? I 
      expect that he'd like to talk to you alone.' 
      Without a word, Catherine took his hand and led him along the corridor. 
      She opened the door of her room and let him in. 'I just came to talk,' he 
      told her. 
      'You mean you don't like me any more?' 
      'I came to ask you to leave this place. I came to persuade you to do the 
      best for your baby.' 
      Catherine took a few steps away from him, and then pirouetted, and lifted 
      her nightgown over her head, so that she was standing in front of him 
      completely naked. 'Now tell me that you don't like me any more.' 
      'Catherine, you can't go on doing this. I've found an apartment for you. 
      It's pretty small but the landlady can take good care of you, and there's 
      a clinic only four blocks away.' 
      Catherine stood up close to him, smiling her dreamy smile. Her nipples 
      were knurled and stiff, and she pressed the hard globe of her stomach up 
      against his reluctantly-rising erection. 'There,' she said, 'you do still 
      like me, after all.' 
      'I don't just like you, Catherine.' 
      'Then prove it,' she challenged him. She tugged down his zipper and pried 
      his cock out of his shorts. He said, 'No, not that,' but she gave him two 
      or three irresistible rubs with her hand and he didn't say anything else 
      after that. 
      He watched her as she knelt in front of him, her eyes closed, her pouting 
      lips encircling his reddened erection. Her check bulged as she took him in 
      deeper, and her tongue swam around his glans like a warm seal. He ran his 
      hands through her hair and fondled her ears and he felt so weak, but so 
      transported with pleasure, that he knew he had to have her for ever, for 
      himself. He would raise her and he would raise her baby, both. He would 
      guard her and protect her and make love to her all night. 
      His sperm flew into her hair and crowned her with pearls. She looked up 
      and smiled at him, and outside the house the thunder rumbled and rattled 
      the windows. 
      'Would you like to live with me?' he asked her. 
      She squeezed his softening penis with her hand. 'Of course ... if only it 
      were possible.' 
      'Then let me take you away from here. Tomorrow night, I'll come for you, 
      yes?' 
      She held out her hand and he helped her onto her feet. 'If only it were 
      possible,' she repeated, and kissed him, very frankly, on the lips. 


      'You're nuts,' said Baubay. 'You know what the penalty is for kidnap?' 
      'She wants me,' Vincent told him. 'She said she'd come to live with me, if 
      I got her out of there.' 
      'Those girls say anything you want to hear. It's what you pay them for.' 
      'Catherine's different.' 
      'The only thing different about Catherine is that she's got a bun in the 
      oven.' 
      'Francois, if you don't help me with this then I'll do it on my own.' 
      'I still say you're nuts.' 
      They drew up outside the house. Vincent had pursuaded Baubay to bring him 
      up here for another evening with Mme Leduc and her girls, with the promise 
      that he would pay, but as they approached St Michel-des-Monts he had 
      explained his plan to take Catherine away with him. 
      'Supposing Violette was telling you the truth about Lac du Sang?' 
      'Oh, come on, Francois. Get real. A bordello full of immortal 
      schoolgirls?' 
      I guess, when you say it like that.' 
      They knocked at the door and Mme Leduc answered, dressed in scarlet silk. 
      'Well, well,' she said, as she took them inside. 'Like a bee to the 
      honeypot, Vincent? Can't keep away?' 
      Vincent gave a self-deprecating shrug. 
      The girls were all in the living-room, and Minette was playing Brahms on 
      the piano. They stood up when Baubay and Vincent came in, and twittered 
      around them, giving them little kisses of welcome and touching their hair. 
      Only Catherine remained seated, and Vincent deliberately didn't catch her 
      eye. 
      'Who takes your fancy tonight, Francois?' asked Mme Leduc. 
      Baubay looked around the room. He glanced at Vincent, and then he said, 
      'You, Violette. It's you that I want tonight.' 


      Later, after champagne, Baubay and Violette climbed the stairs together 
      while the girls clapped and giggled and whistled their encouragement. As 
      soon as they had gone, Vincent went over to Catherine and took hold of her 
      hand. 'Our turn?' he suggested. 
      He held her hand quite tightly as they left the living-room and crossed 
      the hallway. Then - as they passed the front door - he suddenly pulled her 
      and said, 'This is it! Come on, Catherine, this is our chance!' 
      Catherine tried to wrench herself away from him. 'No!' she cried out. 
      'What are you doing?' But Vincent twisted open the doorhandle, flung the 
      door wide open, and dragged Catherine out onto the porch. 
      'No!' she screamed. 'No, Vincent, I can't!' 
      She deliberately sank to her knees, but Vincent bent down, and bodily 
      picked her up. 'No!' she shrieked at him. 'I can't! I can't! No, Vincent, 
      you'll kill me!' 
      She pulled his hair and dug her fingernails into his face, but he found 
      the pain almost exciting. He carried along the pathway and out into the 
      street, where his car was parked. He opened the driver's door and managed 
      to force her inside, pushing her across to the passenger seat. Then he 
      climbed in, started the engine, and sped away from the house with a 
      high-pitched squealing of tires. 
      'Go back!' she shouted, trying to snatch the steering-wheel. 'You have to 
      go back!' 
      'Listen!' he shouted back at her. 'Whatever Violette told you, it's 
      garbage! She said it to scare you, so that you wouldn't leave! Now stop 
      worrying about her and start thinking about yourself, and your baby.' 
      'Go back!' Catherine howled. 'Oh God, you can't do this to me! Oh God 
      please go back! Oh God, Vincent, please take me back!' 
      'Will you shut up?' Vincent told her. 'Shut up and put on your seatbelt. 
      Even if you don't feel protective toward your baby, I do.' 
      'Take me back! Take me back! I can't go with you, Vincent! I can't!' 
      She punched him again and tried to tear at his ear, and the car swerved 
      wildly across the highway. But in the end he managed to catch hold of both 
      of her wrists in his right hand, and restrain her. She stopped trying to 
      hit him, and she curled herself up in her seat, and softly sobbed. 


      She was asleep by the time they reached Montreal. He parked outside the 
      apartment building and switched off the engine. He looked across at her 
      and brushed the hair from her face. She was so beautiful that he could 
      hardly believe she was real. He lifted her out of the passenger seat and 
      carried her in through the entrance hall. It was stark and brightly-lit, 
      but it was late now and there was nobody else around. He went up in the 
      elevator and by the time they reached the sixth floor she was beginning to 
      feel heavy. 
      He opened the door and carried her into the apartment. It wasn't much - a 
      plain, furnished place with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a small 
      kitchenette. By day it had a narrow view of the Prairies River, partly 
      blocked out by another apartment building. He took her through to the 
      bedroom and laid her on the bed. Over the white vinyl headboard hung an 
      almost laughably incompetent painting of a forest in the fall. 
      He sat beside her and took hold of her hand. 'Catherine?' he coaxed her. 
      'Come on, Cathetine. We're here now, sweetheart. We've escaped.' 
      Her eyes flickered open. She stared at him, first in bewilderment, and 
      then in horror. She sat up and looked around her. 'Oh God,' she said. 'Oh 
      God, this can't be true.' 
      'Come on, it's not that bad,' said Vincent. 'A few flowers, a couple of 
      loose covers.' 
      But Catherine ignored him. She climbed off the bed and went directly to 
      the mirror over the dressing-table. 'Oh God,' she kept repeating. 
      Vincent stood beside her as she peered frantically at her face. 
      'Catherine, nothing's going to happen to you. That story that Violette 
      tells ... it's only a way of frightening you.' 
      'But I was there. I was there at Lac du Sang in 1924.' 
      'You couldn't have been. It simply isn't possible. I don't know what 
      Violette did. Maybe she brainwashed you or something. But no day ever 
      lasted longer than twenty-four hours and nobody ever stayed young 
      forever.' 
      'You have to take me back. I'm pleading with you, Vincent. I'm pleading on 
      my child's life.' 
      'You want to go back? Back to what? Back to being a whore? Back to sucking 
      men's cocks and opening your legs to anybody who can pay the price?' 
      'Is that your problem? Is that why you took me away? Because you wanted me 
      to open my legs but you didn't want to pay for it?' 
      'For God's sake, Catherine, I took you away because I love you.' 
      For the first time she took her eyes away from her reflection in the 
      mirror. There was an expression on her face that he had never seen on any 
      girl's face before. It laid him open right to the bone, as if she had cut 
      him with a ten-inch butcher's knife. 
      It was after eleven o'clock. He asked her if she wanted anything to eat or 
      drink but she said no. He switched on the television in the living-room 
      but there was nothing on but lacrosse and an old Errol Flynn movie. 
      Catherine stayed in the bedroom, staring at the wall. In the end he came 
      in and sat next to her again. 'Listen,' he said. 'Maybe I made a mistake.' 

      She glanced up at him, and she looked very pale and very tired. 
      'If you want to go back, I'll take you back. I just thought I was doing 
      the right thing, that's all. Why don't you get some sleep and we'll make 
      an early start in the morning.' 
      She said nothing, but closed her eyes. 
      'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm sorry for being in love with you. I'm sorry for 
      being human. What else was I supposed to do?' 


      He watched television until just after midnight, and then he undressed and 
      climbed into bed with her. She was breathing softly against the pillow. He 
      reached out and touched her arm, and then her breast. Then he ran his hand 
      over the swelling of her stomach. He could feel the baby stir and kick, 
      like somebody kneading dough. 
      He slept uneasily until 3:04. He kept having fragmentary dreams about 
      people laughing and talking in other rooms. He woke with a strong hard-on 
      and he reached out for Catherine again. She was still quietly breathing. 
      He caressed her breasts through her nightgown and then he drew her legs 
      apart and climbed on top of her. Maybe it was wrong of him to fuck her 
      while she was asleep, but he needed her so urgently. She felt dry, in the 
      darkness, but he spat on his fingers to moisten the end of his cock. Then 
      he pushed himself into her, and started a deep, plunging rhythm. 
      She woke up. He sensed her wake up. But he was too close to his climax to 
      stop, and he kept on thrusting himself into her, harder and harder. He 
      heard her panting, quick and harsh, and he thought, great, she's getting 
      into it too. He said, 'Come on, baby, you're wonderful. Come on, 
      sweetheart, you're fantastic.' 
      It was then that she screamed. It was a piercing, gargling scream, and he 
      could feel spit fly all over his face. He jerked upright, his skin 
      freezing in fright, and then she screamed again. He scrabbled to find the 
      bedside lamp, and managed to switch it on, but then it dropped onto the 
      floor, so that what he saw was illuminated by an angled, upward light that 
      made it look even more terrifying than it was. 
      He was kneeling between the legs of a shriveled old woman. Her sparse 
      white hair was coming out in clumps. Her eyes were sunk into their sockets 
      and her lips were drawn tightly back over orange, toothless gums. All that 
      identified her as Catherine was her huge, swollen belly. 
      'Oh Jesus,' Vincent whispered. 'Oh Jesus, tell me this is a nightmare.' 
      The old woman tried to scream again, but all she managed this time was a 
      thick gargle. She lifted one of her bony arms, and clawed feebly at 
      Vincent's shoulder, but Vincent pushed her away. She was collapsing in 
      front of his eyes. Her face was tightening over her cheekbones and her 
      breasts were shriveling. Her collarbone broke through her skin, and her 
      chin dropped onto her chest. 
      'Catherine!' Vincent quivered. 'Catherine!' 
      He lifted her head, but it dropped sideways onto the pillow and it was 
      obvious that she was dead. Vincent climbed off the bed, wiping his hands 
      on the sheet. He was trembling so much that he had to hold onto the wall 
      for support. 
      It was then that he thought: the baby - what about the baby? Even if 
      Catherine's dead, maybe I can save the baby! 
      He thought for one moment of calling for an ambulance - but how the hell 
      was he going to explain an old, dead woman in his bed - an old, dead 
      pregnant woman? He approached Catherine cautiously, and laid his hand on 
      her stomach, and, yes, he could still feel the baby kicking inside her. 
      But how long could it survive if he didn't get it out? 
      He went to the kitchen, opened the drawer, and took out a carving-knife. 
      He returned to the bedroom and stood beside Catherine gray-faced. He 
      nearly decided to do nothing, to let the baby die, hut then he saw 
      Catherine's stomach shift again, and he knew that he had to give it a 
      chance. 
      He inserted the point of the knife into her wrinkled skin, just above her 
      pubic bone. Then, slowly, he pushed it in through the muscle, until he 
      felt something more yielding. He was terrified of cutting the baby as 
      well, but he kept on slicing her stomach open, and she was so decayed and 
      dry and papery that it was more like cutting open a rotten old hessian 
      sack. At last he had her stomach wide open, and he drew aside the two 
      flaps of flesh to reveal her womb. 
      Shaking and dripping with sweat, he cut the baby out of her. One foot 
      emerged, and then a hand. Miraculously, it was still alive. It was purple 
      and slithery and it smelled strongly of amniotic fluid. He turned it over 
      so that he could cut the umbilical cord, and then he lifted it up in both 
      hands. It was so tiny, so frail. A baby girl. Her eyes were squeezed shut 
      and she clasped and unclasped her fingers. She snuffled, and then she let 
      out two or three pathetic little cries. 
      Vincent was overwhelmed. He started to sob out loud. Tears ran down his 
      cheeks and dripped from his chin. He couldn't understand what had happened 
      to Catherine, but he knew that he had saved the baby's life. He carried 
      her through to the living-room, laid her on the couch, and then went to 
      the bathroom to find some towels. 


      He sped to St Michel-des-Monts through driving, sunlit rain. At times his 
      speedometer needle wavered over 110 kph. He managed to reach the house 
      just after eleven o'clock. He ran to the front porch, vaulted up the steps 
      and banged furiously on the knocker. 
      Mme Leduc appeared, with Baubay close behind her. 'You came back,' she 
      said. 'I'm amazed that you had the nerve.' 
      'Well ... I don't think I had any choice.' 
      'Catherine?' 
      He lowered his head. 'You were telling me the truth. Catherine's gone. But 
      I managed to save her child. I wanted to bring her back here before it was 
      too late.' 
      He went back to the car, and opened the door. Very hesitantly, like 
      somebody who has never felt rain on their skin before, or had sunlight 
      shining in their eyes, a young girl climbed out, barefoot, but wrapped up 
      in green bath towels. Vincent took her hand and led her toward the house. 
      Violette and Baubay watched in silence as she came up the steps. She 
      looked at least 17 or 18 years old, with long brunette hair, like 
      Catherine's, and she was almost as pretty, although her features were a 
      little sharper. 
      'There,' said Vincent, as he led her into the house. 'You'll be safe 
      here.' 
      There were tears in Mme Leduc's eyes. 'I wish that I had never wished,' 
      she told Vincent. 
      'Well,' Vincent told her. 'Sometimes we all think that.' 
      They drove away from the house just as the rain was beginning to clear. 
      Baubay said, 'Where are you going? Montreal's back that way.' 
      Vincent handed him a folded route map. 'Lac du Sang,' he said. 'There's 
      one more thing I have to do.' 


      In the woods, he dug a shallow grave and buried Catherine's dessicated 
      body. He filled her face with earth and leaves. 'I'm sorry,' was all he 
      could think of to say. Afterward he stood by the edge of the water under a 
      clear blue sky. 
      'They came here and they wished,' he told Baubay. 'God, they couldn't have 
      known what they were wishing for, could they?' 
      'All I wish for is a new Mercedes,' said Baubay. 
      'I just wish that I could have woken up every night and found Catherine 
      lying next to me.' 
      'You can go back to Violette's and try out her daughter.' 
      'Forget it. I feel like her father. I brought her into the world, didn't 
      I? I watched her grow up.' 
      'In three hours? That's not fatherhood.' 
      'All the same, it was incredible. She just grew bigger and bigger, like 
      one of those speeded-up movies.' 
      'Sure she did.' 
      'She did, I swear it.' 
      'Sure.' 
      They climbed back into the car and drove away, leaving the waters of Lac 
      du Sang as still as ever. 


      Six weeks later, Baubay phoned to tell him that he had been promoted and 
      given a metallic gold 5OOSL as a company car. After that, Vincent awoke 
      two or three times every night, and fearfully reached out to make sure 
      that there was nobody lying on the other side of the bed. 

      Copyright  by Graham Masterton, 1997. 


