"Are you?"

"Of course," she said. She winked and let a finger trace the shape of her left breast. "And not just for that."

Cam the Hun tried to quell the stirring in his trousers by studying the black painted floorboards. "Oh?" he said.

"There's trouble coming," she said. "I'll need your help."

He allowed himself a glance at her. "What kind of trouble?"

"The Davy Pollock kind."

His stomach lurched. He took a deeper swig of gin, forced it down. His eyes burned.

"He's been spreading talk about me," she said. "Says he wants me out of the way. Says he wants my business. Says he'll pay good money to anyone who'll do it for him."

"Is that right?" Cam the Hun said.

"That's right." She let her leg drop from the arm of the chair, her heel like a gunshot on the floor, and sat forward. "But he's got no takers. No one on that side of town wants the fight. They know I've too many friends."

He managed a laugh. "Who'd be that stupid?"

"Exactly," she said.

He drained the gla.s.s and coughed. His eyes streamed, and when he sniffed back the scorching tears, he got that ripe meat smell again. His stomach wanted to expel the gin, but he willed it to be quiet.

"So, what do you want me to do?" he asked.

She swallowed the last of her gin and said, "Him."

He dropped his gla.s.s. It didn't shatter, but rolled across the floor to stop at her feet. "What?"

"I want you to do him," she said.

He could only blink and open his mouth.

"It'll be all right," she said. "I've cleared it with everyone that matters. His own side have wanted shot of him for years. Davy Pollock is a piece of s.h.i.t. He steals from his own neighbours, threatens old ladies and children, talks like he's the big man when everyone knows he's an a.r.s.ewipe. You'd be doing this town a favour."

Cam the Hun shook his head. "I can't," he said.

"Course you can." She smiled at him. "Besides, there's fifteen grand in it for you. And you can go back to Orangefield to see your mother. Picture it. You could have Christmas dinner with your ma tomorrow."

"But I'd have to-"

"Tonight," she said. "That's right."

"But how?"

"How? Sure, everyone knows Cam the Hun's handy with a knife." She drew a line across her throat with her finger. "Just like that. You won't even have to go looking for him. I know where he's resting his pretty wee head right this minute."

"No," he said.

She placed her gla.s.s on the floor next to his and rose to her feet, her hands gliding over her thighs, along her body, and up to her hair. Her heels click-clacked on the floorboards as she crossed to him. "Consider it my Christmas present," she said.

He went to stand, but she put a hand on his shoulder.

"But first I'm going to give you yours," she purred. "Do you want it?"

"G.o.d," he said.

The Queen of the Hill unlaced her corset top and let it fall away.

"Jesus," he said.

She pulled him to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, let him take in her warmth. He kissed her there while she toyed with his hair. A minute stretched out to eternity before she pushed him back with a gentle hand on his chest. His right mind shrieked in protest as she straddled him, grinding against his body as she got into position, a knee either side of his waist. She leaned forward.

"Close your eyes," she said.

"No," he said, the word dying in his throat before it found his vocal cords.

"Shush," she said. She wiped her hand across his eyelids, sealed out the dim light. Her weight shifted and pillows tumbled around him. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his chest, her breath warmed his cheek. Lips met his, an open mouth cold and dry, coa.r.s.e stubble, a tongue like ripe meat.

Cam the Hun opened one eye and saw a milky white globe an inch from his own, a thick, dark brow above it, pale skin blotched with red.

He screamed.

The Queen of the Hill laughed and pushed Davy Pollock's severed head down, rubbing the dead flesh and stubble against Cam the Hun's face.

Cam the Hun screamed again and threw his arms upward. The heel of his hand connected with her jaw. She tumbled backwards and spilled onto the floor. The head bounced twice and rolled to a halt at her side. She hooted and cackled as she sprawled there, her legs kicking.

He squealed until his voice broke. He wiped his mouth and cheeks with his hands and sleeves until the chill of dead flesh was replaced by raw burning. He rolled on his side and vomited, the gin and foulness soaking her black satin sheets. He retched until his stomach felt like it had turned itself inside-out.

All the time, her laughter tore at him, ripping his sanity away shred by shred.

"Shut up," he wanted to shout, but it came out a thin whine.

"Shut up." He managed a weak croak this time. He reached for his coat, fumbled for the pocket, found the knife. He tried to stand, couldn't, tried again. He grabbed the iron bedpost with his left hand for balance. The blade snapped open in his right.

Her laughter stopped, leaving only the rushing in his ears. She looked up at him, grinning, a trickle of blood running to her chin.

"What are you?" he asked.

She giggled.

"What are you?" A tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a hot trail behind it.

"I'm the Queen of the Hill." Her tongue flicked out, smeared the blood across her lips. "I'm the G.o.ddess. I'm the death of you and any man who crosses me."

"No," he said, "not me." He raised the knife and stepped towards her.

She reached for Davy Pollock's head, grabbed it by the hair.

Cam the Hun took another step and opened his mouth to roar. He held the knife high, ready to bring it down on her exposed heart.

He saw it coming, but it was too late. Davy Pollock's cranium shattered Cam the Hun's nose, and he fell into feathery darkness.

He awoke choking on his own blood and bile. He coughed and spat. A deep, searing pain radiated from beneath his eyes to encompa.s.s the entire world. The Queen of the Hill cradled his head in her lap. He went to speak, but could only gargle and sputter.

"Shush, now," she said.

He tried to raise himself up, pushing with the last of his strength. She clucked and gathered him to her bosom. He stained her b.r.e.a.s.t.s red.

"We could've been good together, you and me," she said.

His mouth opened and closed, but the words couldn't force their way past the coppery warm liquid. He wanted to weep, but the pain blocked his tears.

"You could've been my king," she said. She rocked him and kissed his forehead. "This could've been our palace on the hill. But that's all gone. Now there's only this."

She brought the knife into his vision, the blade so bright and pretty. "Close your eyes," she said.

He did as he was told. Her fingers were warm and soft as she loosened his collar and pulled the fabric away from his throat.

The cathedral bells rang out. He counted the chimes, just like he'd done as a child, listening to his mother's old clock as he waited for Santa Claus. Twelve and it would be Christmas.

It didn't hurt for long.

GHOSTED.

Peter Lovesey.

THIS HAPPENED THE year I won the Gold Heart for Pa.s.sionata, my romantic novel of the blighted love between an Austrian composer and a troubled English girl getting psychotherapy in Vienna. I have never had any difficulty thinking up plots even though my own life has been rather short of romantic experiences. You will understand that the award and the attention it brought me were a high point, because up to then I had written forty-five books in various genres that received no praise at all except a few letters from readers. I hadn't even attended one of the romance writers' lunches at which the awards were presented. I was a little light-headed by the end. I still believe it wasn't the champagne that got to me and it wasn't the prize or the cheque or shaking the hand of one of the royal family. It was the envy in the eyes of all the other writers. Utterly intoxicating.

Whatever the reason, I can't deny that my brain was in such a whirl when I left the Cafe Royal that I couldn't think which way to turn for Waterloo Station. I believe I broke the rule of a lifetime and took a taxi. Anyway, it was a relief finally to find myself on the train to Guildford, an ordinary middle-aged lady once again ordinary except for the drop-dead Armani gown under my padded overcoat. That little number cost me more than the value of the prize cheque. Just to be sure my triumph had really happened I took out the presentation box containing the replica Gold Heart, closed my eyes and remembered the moment when everyone had stood and applauded.

"Is that it?" a voice interrupted my reverie.

I opened my eyes. The seat next to me had been taken by a man with cropped silver hair. He was in a pinstripe suit cut rather too sharply for my taste, but smart. He had a black shirt with a silver tie and he wore dark gla.s.ses that he probably called shades.

"I beg your pardon," I said.

"I said is that it one day as a star and you shove off home with your gong and are never heard of again?"

I tried not to catch his eye, but I'd seen the glint of gold teeth when he spoke. I've never liked ostentation. Whoever he was, this person had caught me off guard. Quite how he knew so much I had no idea. I didn't care for his forwardness or the presumption behind his question. Besides, it was the coveted Gold Heart, not a gong. I decided to let him know his interest wasn't welcome. "If you don't mind me saying so, it's none of your business."

"Don't be like that, Dolly," he said, giving me even more reason to object to him. My pen-name is Dolores and I insist that my friends call me that and nothing less. The man was bending his head towards me as if he didn't want the other pa.s.sengers to overhear. It's unnerving at the best of times to be seated next to someone in a train who wants a conversation, but when they almost touch heads with you and call you Dolly, it's enough to make a lady reach for the emergency handle. He must have sensed what I was thinking because he tried to appease me. "I was being friendly. You're right. It's none of my business."

I gave a curt nod and looked away, out of the window.

Then he added, "But it could be yours."

I ignored him.

"Business I could put your way."

"I don't wish to buy anything. Please leave me alone," I said.

"I'm not selling anything. The business I mean is a runaway bestseller. Think about it. What's this book called Pa.s.sion something?"

"Pa.s.sionata."

"It will sell a few hundred extra copies on the strength of this award. A thousand, if you're lucky, and how much does the author take? Chickenfeed. I'm talking worldwide sales running into millions."

"Oh, yes?" I said with an ironic curl of the lip.

"You want to know more? Step into the limo that will be waiting at the end of your street at nine tomorrow morning. It's safe, I promise you, and it will change your life."

I was about to ask how he knew where I lived, but he stood up, took a black fedora off the rack, held it in a kind of salute, winked, placed it on his head and moved away up the train.

I didn't enjoy the rest of my journey home. My thoughts were in ferment. Worldwide sales running into millions? Success on a scale such as that was undreamed of, even for the writer of the best romantic novel of the year. The man was obviously talking nonsense.

Who could he possibly have been? A literary agent? A publisher? A film tyc.o.o.n? I couldn't imagine he was any of these.

I decided to forget about him and his limousine.

I think it was the anticlimax of returning to my cold suburban semi that made me reconsider. Some more of the paint on the front door had peeled off. There was a rate demand on the doormat along with the usual flyers advertising takeaways. Next door's TV was too loud again. At least it masked the maddening drip-drip of the leaky kitchen tap. I deserved better after writing all those books.

Perhaps the award had really changed my luck.

After a troubled night, I woke early, wondering if the man in the train had been a figment of my imagination. If the car materialized, I'd know he had been real. Generally I wear jeans and an old sweater around the house. Today I put on my grey suit and white blouse, just in case. I looked out of the window more than once. All I could see at the end of the street was the greengrocer's dirty white van.

At five to nine, I looked again and saw a gleaming black Daimler. My heart pounded. I put on my shiny black shoes with the heels, tossed my red pashmina around my shoulders, and hurried in as dignified a fashion as possible to the end of the street. The chauffeur was a grey-haired man in a grey uniform. He saluted me in a friendly fashion and opened the car door.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"I believe it's meant to be a surprise, ma'am."

"You're not telling, then?"

"That would spoil it. Make yourself comfortable. If you don't want the TV, just press the power switch. There's a selection of magazines and papers."