Jagger sat in a quiet corner of The White Whippet, drinking a pint of beer. Within the pub, the atmosphere was subdued, the air heavy with pipe and tobacco smoke, the voices of the few patrons lowered and secretive. With dark ceiling beams, old wooden benches and intimate booths, the interior of the Whippet seemed cloistered and guarded. From where he sat, Jagger could see the long dark bar directly in front of him, behind which hung a great dusty mirror surrounded by shelves stacked with bottles, mugs, Toby jugs and glasses.

Two men sat together to the far right, speaking in Welsh, a language that had long fascinated Jagger; a language that made him think of brotherhood and of heritage, of secret conversations that reflected secret lives. Behind the men, a small fire burned in a huge fireplace. Even though it was summer, the cold Welsh mountain air gave a chill to the old stone inn, and the tiny flame in the grate warmed the atmosphere.

Jagger sat as far from the fireplace as he could, always uneasy when he came near open fires--it was something in the way the flames spat and licked, threatening to leap onto his flesh and burn him. And sitting so alone, it was easy for him to fix his concentration on the only other patron within the room. A tall dark young man leaned against the bar, talking in a lowered voice to the landlord of the inn. All evening, Jagger had been watching this young man.

There was something about him Jagger could sense, something that radiated outward through his persona like a fire. Standing tall and lean, the man wore slim sideburns that touched his jaw, framing his slightly narrow face. His profile showed a straight nose, a mouth full and finely formed. And his long black hair shone under the dim lighting of the pub like a dark fire, held back from his forehead by a tight psychedelic headband. He wore a long black coat to his knees, black jeans with a silver belt, and a blood-red shirt; and when he moved, when his coat fell aside, Jagger saw a golden goblet hanging from his belt, clasped around its stem on a short silver chain.

Exuding a strong sense of power and attraction, the man commanded the room, even though he never moved from his place at the bar.

All evening Jagger studied him, bound in fascination, noticing that the man gave no sign of being aware of any other person in the room other than the landlord, with whom he spoke quietly. Between serving his few customers, the landlord always came back to the young man, continuing their conversation.

Jagger sipped his beer, having also noticed that even though the man stood all night at the bar, he never took a drink. It may have been this fact that had first drawn Jagger's attention to him--how he could stand at the bar for most of the night, yet never once drink. But Jagger wanted to drink, and he went to the bar now to refill his glass.

He returned to his seat and when he sat, he saw the dark man unhook his golden goblet from its chain and place it on the bar. He put lean white fingers around the stem and waited.

The landlord smiled, brought out a black-glassed bottle from behind the bar, and poured a dark drink into the goblet.

The man drank this brew in one swallow and when he finished, he leant across the bar and clasped the landlord's shoulder, thanking him with a veiled smile.

The landlord nodded, pouring another shot into the goblet. Again the drink went down and Jagger watched, fascinated.

When the man thanked the landlord again, he turned and left the bar.

Leaving his own drink unfinished, Jagger got up and followed the man outside, leaving the pub with a quick stride. Coming out onto the dimly lit pavement, he looked up and down the street, but the man had already disappeared into the night.

The following evening, Jagger was back in his seat in The White Whippet. He sat all night, watching the locals coming and going. He looked at his watch. He was waiting for the dark man. He wanted the man to come; there was something about him, something that forced Jagger to sit and wait. He looked at his watch again: ten thirty p.m. He was not supposed to be here--he was supposed to be at Alan's, his brother-in-law's house, visiting him ... but just as Jagger decided to leave, the door opened, and the man walked in.

Jagger sat up.

As he had the night before, the man stood at the bar, smiling at the landlord, their eyes taking and holding in a long, quiet gaze. They talked for a quarter of an hour. Then once more, at last orders, the landlord produced the black-glassed bottle, pouring two shots of a thick dark red liquid that the man drank with a slight smile on his lips.

Jagger waited a moment longer before drinking up his own beer, and when he did, he got up and left the bar, intending to wait outside in the pub doorway for the man to come out.

Alone now in the warm night air, he thought only about possibility. His mind was full of the kinds of things that may come around the corner unseen, of possible danger, possible release from his prison of mediocrity.

He waited, thinking that the man was not going to come out, that maybe he was going to stay the night inside the pub, that the landlord had a room for him.

Shuffling his feet, he thought he should move on, but just then the door opened and the man stepped out; he paused a moment, looking up into the sky. He turned aside, hoping not to be noticed, but when he turned back again, the man had already reached the top of the street. Jagger moved after him, walking fast uphill.

As he walked, he saw the man stop at the top of the high street and look to his left. There was something cat-like about his movements, something predatory and alert. Jagger could feel the man's alertness, his movements of purpose.

Then the strange man made a left turn and was gone into the darkness at the top of the hill. Jagger ran to the top of the street; here he stopped, looking left. Going downhill ran a long narrow cobbled lane, lined on the left-hand side with tiny slate-roofed cottages. The cottages faced a high churchyard on the opposite side of the road.

Turning and walking down this unlit road, Jagger felt tension rising within him. His nerves pricked as if eyes were on his back. Again the man had disappeared into the night.

Jagger thought his booted heels clicked too loudly as he walked down the silent lane. He slowed his pace when he saw a sudden light turn on from a low cottage window. He stopped by the cottage, thinking the man may have gone inside this house.

Maybe he lived here, and this would explain why he had disappeared so quickly. Convinced of this, Jagger gave up his search and decided to cross the lane and walk back to his brother-in-law's house by way of the old churchyard--a quicker route than going back through the village centre. He crossed the lane and approached the churchyard and looked up.

Here he saw the arms of the old oak trees reaching over and above his head with heavy dark arms, threatening to fall and crush him. The churchyard rose six feet higher than street-level, its front being reinforced by a man-high retaining wall, broken by a set of steps and wooden gate that led up towards the church, St Mary's of White Wood. Here the trees and headstones of the graveyard loomed above him, shadowed and broken.

Alert now, Jagger noticed the beauty of the night, the silence and the moonlight shining with a strange mystic quality on the cobblestones of the lane. He took the steps up into the graveyard, climbed the old wooden gate, and then decided to cut across behind the church, then over the far wall to Alan's house. From here, he swiftly walked home.

With two more days and nights of his stay to spend in Gwyngoed, it did not take much for Jagger to persuade himself to sit in the pub and watch for the dark man. He sat staring down into his glass of beer. The pub seemed even more deserted than usual tonight, but when he looked up, in walked the dark man, once more taking up his place at the bar. And this time Jagger made his move.

Getting up and going to the bar, he turned to the man and said, "Excuse me, but can I buy you a drink? Sorry, I mean, I noticed you here before and as you're alone like me, I wondered if you'd care to share a drink."

Standing so close to him now, Jagger was stuck by the intensity of the man's eyes, totally black, black wells. Jagger stared at him, waiting for a reply.

Finally, the man answered in a thickly accented voice, "I will not drink, though I thank you for your offer. Please sit--I will not mind your company."

Jagger sat down on a barstool next to him, staring, his mind gone blank. He sipped his beer as the man said, "Why do you stare at me?"

"It's just you're not a local here, and neither am I, so I was wondering where you're from."

"That is something I have no wish to discuss. Although I will not mind if you tell me where you come from."

He smiled--a strange smile that kept his top lip low over his teeth.

"Well"--Jagger drank--"I come from Plymouth, in Devon. My wife comes from this village--that's why I'm here. I'm staying with her brother. He's been unwell, and my presence is supposed to be cheering him up, but it's not working."

As he spoke, the landlord stood listening, his hands spread wide on the bar top. It was quiet in the pub. The clock ticked ten forty-five p.m.

Jagger drank again, feeling uncomfortable under the man's black gaze. To ease his tension, he offered a hand in greeting, saying, "My name's Lorne, but everyone calls me by my surname--Jagger."

"Jagger!" The man laughed, turning his smile on the landlord. "Jagger." He laughed again.

"I know," Jagger admitted, "everyone reacts like that, and no, I'm not related to Mick." Inside, he felt pleased. He could see this famous surname of his had broken the tension.

The man turned, saying, "No relation, such a pity. I would love to meet Mick Jagger. I am a long-time Rolling Stones fan."

The landlord chuckled and moved away.

"I'm sorry," Jagger moved closer, "but I didn't catch your name. I feel odd talking to you without knowing who you are."

"Do you think you will know who I am by merely asking my name?"

"It would help."

The man moved, shifting his weight to the left, closer to Jagger.

He said with his head bowed, his long black hair falling forward, "My name, for your own comfort, is Altair Salvar."

They shook hands; Altair's hand was powerful and slightly cold to the touch.

Instantly Jagger felt a charismatic force in his personality, felt it as a physical sensation when they touched.

"Is that a Spanish accent I hear?" he said.

"Si, so long it is been since I have lived in Spain. Usted de be guardarse de mi, Yo es un asesion."

"Sorry, I don't speak Spanish."

"I asked if you are here on holiday."

"No, my brother-in-law's sick, like I said, and I'm offending him by spending a few weeks in his house."

Silence.

Jagger ventured more, "And your name, 'Altair'? That's an unusual name, a bit like mine, 'Lorne Jagger'."

"Oh, I don't know, it makes you more interesting. And 'Altair,' if you must know, is a star close to Serpens, which is near Capricornus. I call myself Altair, and if I ever had a name before, I have forgotten it."

Altair studied the curious look on Jagger's face, explaining further, "Altair is a star sixteen point five light years distant from the Earth, and is of the magnitude zero point seventy-seven--being the brightest star in the constellation of Aquila."

Altair's black eyes stared at him until Jagger was forced to turn away. The moment fell heavy between them. Altair too turned away. For a long time, he stared at the coach-light mounted before them, high on the wall behind the bar.

Jagger looked at him from the corner of his eye and saw Altair slightly open his mouth. His teeth, glimpsed just below his top lip, looked sharp.

For a moment Jagger felt a chill, a chill that thrilled him. They made no more conversation until the landlord called last orders.

Jagger said as he drank up his beer, "Do you live in this village, Altair?"

"Yes I do."

"Where?"

"That is not your concern, Jagger." He smiled again and turned back to his friend, the landlord.

With the call for last orders, Jagger knew Altair would receive his nightly toast from the black bottle; he was waiting for this now, a gleam of anticipation in his intense eyes. The black bottle was in the landlord's hand; he poured a liquid so dark it was itself nearly black.

Watching this, Jagger remained silent, staring as Altair swallowed his drink.

Again came the second shot. This time Altair did not drink in one, but lifted the goblet to Jagger, saying, "So, you think I am interesting?"

Jagger stammered, "I don't suppose there's any reason to deny it. Yes, you have a certain ... interesting look about you."

"Is it because I am a Spaniard in a Welsh pub, drinking nightly a strange brew? Do you wonder what I do? What do you do, Jagger, to earn your living?"

"Well, I'm ordinary."

"Ordinary?" Altair looked surprised. "Do you think that men are ordinary?"

"Yes, so ordinary they reach the point of dullness. I'm dull--I work in a motorcycle dealership in Plymouth. Me and my boss, Tony, specialise in repairing and rebuilding old British bikes, the odd Harley Davidson too. I think myself a pretty good mechanic. I have two bikes at home that I'm rebuilding, though they eat up my money. I have to feed them like babies."

"Does that make you dull, then? Men, Jagger, are not dull. Every one of us has something deeply buried, something that makes us unique. All it needs is a push to reveal this uniqueness."

"Something like a war?" Jagger offered. "Where we reveal a brutality that's not found in other life forms? To me, it's evil that makes men different."

"Interesting," Altair said, leaning close and showing glimpses of sharpness from his teeth. "I think it is true that evil is not found within nature or things of nature. Only Man displays evil. Is this because he believes himself beyond nature? Is it Man's desire to dominate nature that has made him evil?"

Again his low smile. Jagger felt a thrill when he saw Altair's white teeth.

He said, "Man is evil because of his intelligence. It's intelligence that allows us to think of evil. Without a mind, we would be as dumb as the animals. It's only by our mind's power that we can be good, or evil. We invented good and evil, and what's the point of inventing something if we don't utilise our inventions?"

Altair answered, "Then are some of us evil by nature, or by choice?"

Jagger looked into his near-empty glass, now finding that Altair's closeness did not threaten him. He said, "If a man is evil, it must be in him already."

"By his nature?"

"I think so."

"Does this then make him excusable for his evil actions?"

Jagger found that he could not take his eyes from Altair's face. He answered, "No. Man is conscious enough to know when he's doing evil and when not."

"Your arguments are interesting," Altair replied. "But, what may be evil to one may be good to another. What if I were to tell you that I am ... what shall I say? Yo soy un bebedor de sangre, un diablo con la sangre de mis hermanos sobre mis labios."

He finished his drink, licking his lips.

He placed a hand on Jagger's shoulder, saying, "I must leave now." With that, he turned and left the bar, leaving his Spanish words echoing without meaning in Jagger's mind.

Another full day of boredom passed, and even though he spent the day searching, Jagger could not find Altair anywhere in the village. He found the Spaniard only that night in the inn, where their conversation continued with deep intent, as it had on the previous evening.

"Altair?" Jagger started. "Last night you said that what is evil to one may be good to another. Surely evil is evil and can't be good by the fact that evil is the opposite of good?"

"Some men," Altair answered, "are the opposites of other men. If a man acted like a wolf and killed other men for food, does this make him evil?"

"Yes, because men don't eat other men, as the wolf doesn't eat other wolves. If a man kills other men, he's evil."

"Even if he believed his actions were good?"

"Of course! Altair, are you really so green?" Jagger laughed when he saw Altair nod in thought. His black eyes flashed.

Now the Spaniard explained, low and hard, "What I mean is, what if a man does not realise his actions are evil when he kills? This would mean his intentions were not deliberate. Would this then negate the horror of his killing?"

Jagger thought, then replied, "An evil act that's not a deliberate evil act? Evil committed in innocence? No, I don't think that's evil. Evil is a deliberate and intentioned act--an act to cause deliberate harm. But it's still horrifying. Like a child committing murder, not knowing that it is murder."

Altair turned away from Jagger now.

His gaze fell again on the clock behind the bar. He appeared to be taking in everything about it: its colour, its form, its construction, its endlessly ticking time. He stared until the landlord once again poured the dark drink. Altair did not drink straight away, but studied his goblet. The pub fell very quiet, the landlord waiting for Altair to drink, Jagger waiting for him to drink.

He lingered, and Jagger broke the silence. "You said you live in the village. What do you do for a living? I know there's no work around here."

In answer, Altair drank and turned to face him.

He lifted up his right arm, saying, "See these cuff-links?" He showed them closer. "Solid twenty-four carat gold and diamonds surrounded by rubies. These cuffs, if I sold them, would bring me enough money to buy this village." Again he smiled and lifted his top lip, showing Jagger a slight projection of his two canine teeth.

Jagger's blood ran hot.

He turned away to hide his excitement and sat looking up at the clock, feeling his heart beating fast, not sure of what he had just seen. Whatever he had seen, it electrified him, pushed blood into his heart and around his veins, hot and fast.

Altair leant towards him and whispered, "So, I'm not so interesting now--now that you know I am rich and do not need to work like you do, to scrape at meaningless tasks to earn enough to eat and pay the rent. Now, I am not so interesting."

"So you're the rich son of a Spanish lord," Jagger said in a low voice. "What are you doing in Wales?"

"I live where I choose."

"But what do you do all day long? I haven't seen you around town."

"Don't worry about my time--my time is dictated for me. I am not as free as you think me."

"Hell, I wish I had money. And you're still young. What are you, twenty-four, twenty-five?"

"You sound like an old resentful miser, my friend Jagger. No, I'm twenty-nine, if you must know all my business. I have suffered much to keep my wealth."

Altair's face darkened, and he turned hard, anger rising in his eyes.

"Don't you have any ambitions, a need to work and do something?" Jagger said, slightly turned away, yet desiring Altair to pull him back again.

Altair grew darker, his power striking. "Yes, I do, you prying fool. I wish, if the Lord would ever hear me, to right a wrong done in my past. Do I satisfy you yet, Jagger?"

"Of course you don't. I want to know who you are. Are you related to the Spanish royal family or something?"

Altair hissed at this remark and turned back to the landlord; he waved his goblet, indicating a need for more black wine.

He drank this with a quick swallow and said, "You ask too many personal questions. You do not make polite conversation."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise that asking who you are was being impolite."

But Altair refused any more conversation. He snarled and turned and left the bar, walking to the door.

Jagger called after him, "Are you leaving without saying goodbye? I'm going home tomorrow!"

Altair stopped at the door. "Come then," he said.

Jagger got up and followed, leaving behind his half-finished pint. They walked out and stood in the street. It was a fine night, full of sweet summer scents. Altair offered his hand, his face bathed in the gentle light coming through the pub windows. They shook hands in farewell, Jagger showing a look of sadness in his eyes.

Altair noticed this sadness and said, "Go home safely, mi amigo, mi hermano."

"And I don't get a hint at who you are to take home with me, so I can spend the rest of my life building illusions around you?"

"If you must, then I will tell you only one thing." Altair bowed and, looking up, he said, "I am a member of a highly secret society, and just by telling you this small thing, I have compromised myself."

He bowed again and with a stare that stabbed through Jagger's heart, he turned and walked down the street. Standing to watch him go, Jagger felt regret, but now he turned and headed towards Alan's house, once more by way of the old church graveyard.

Chapter Two

"There's a letter for you."

"A letter?"

Having just come in from work, Jagger was still dressed in his oily overalls, his face smeared with grease. His thick collar-length blond hair was also greasy from his habit of combing his hair with his work-stained fingers. He swept his wife Vicky into his arms for a welcome-home kiss before taking the letter from her; he kissed her mouth, her neck, nipping his teeth under her ear. Vicky laughed, kissing him back--after five years of marriage, Jagger was still beautiful to her.

Jagger now turned to wander with his letter into the kitchen. He sat at the dining table and took off his glasses to clean them, smudging them against his clothes, making them dirtier than before. He cleaned them again and looked at the envelope that Vicky handed to him; it was the first personal letter he had received in years. He ripped open the envelope and took out the paper, scanning the letter, finding the initials A.S. written in a beautiful script at the bottom of the page.

"I'll be damned," he said, "it's from Altair. You know, Vicky, that Spanish guy I met in Gwyngoed? He's in Plymouth. Hey, just look at his handwriting, will you?"

Vicky peered over his shoulder, judging, exclaiming, "It's calligraphy, right? Lord, it even looks Spanish. He must be well-educated and sophisticated. Read it then. I'll get dinner on."

She peeled potatoes and Jagger read in silence.

"Well, what does it say?" she asked.

"It says he's in Plymouth and is coming here to meet me--tonight. At ten o'clock. His spelling's not very good; spells like a six-year-old, and some is written in Spanish." Jagger attempted to read the foreign words aloud, "Deseo probar la sangre de su esposa. Says he wants to meet you and see our house. Hell, he could've given me more notice."

"He's very forward, isn't he? I hope we don't disappoint him," Vicky said, wiping her hands on a tea towel before pushing back a strand of loose dark hair. Stopped for a moment by her beauty, Jagger thought of taking her upstairs.

Instead, he hung his head and said, "I've already warned him how ordinary we are. I'm surprised that someone as exotic as him has bothered to get in touch with someone as mediocre as me."

He sighed, filled with a sudden need for change, for risk, for the strange sense of possibility that Altair had seemed to offer him in Gwyngoed. Once again, he saw himself as he had been during his conversations with Altair, a humdrum mechanic, not a dashing millionaire. He stared at the letter.

Vicky came and sat at the table next to him, pulling across a copy of the previous Sunday's newspaper. "And that's not all that will surprise you. Take a look at this." She flipped over a few pages, now pointing out an article that took up one side of the page.

Jagger read the story and said, "My God, a murder in Gwyngoed, and the very same day I left."

"I told you we should get a weekly paper. I hate the way you always cut yourself off from the outside world." She thought now of the way he refused to buy newspapers and magazines--except for a few vintage motorcycle magazines--and neither did he watch television nor listen to the radio.

All Jagger ever seemed to read was the extensive collection of books on his own bookshelf, books that delved into strange, dark subjects in which she had no interest. But today the newspaper article had caught her eye as she shopped.

Now she studied her husband as he read through the article. "A mutilated body of a young man was found slumped across a grave in the churchyard of the north Welsh village of Gwyngoed early yesterday morning, the twentieth of July. The body of the so far nameless man was badly mutilated about the head, neck and face, leaving his features unidentifiable. The murderer remains at large."

Jagger sat back, not reading any further.

"Isn't that incredible?" Vicky said, staring at him. "Just imagine? In Gwyngoed, at the church I used to go to as a child. And now this strange friend of yours arrives from home!"

She patted his greasy hair. "If he's coming here, you better go and have a bath." She shouted after him as he got up and left the kitchen, "And don't forget to scrub under your fingernails!"

The fact that Altair was now in Plymouth, and just six days after the murder in Gwyngoed, worked on Jagger's mind as he sat with Vicky in the living room, waiting for the Spaniard to arrive. The thought of hearing his Spanish voice, of seeing his ink-black eyes, his unique way of dressing, compelled Jagger to sit and wait with held breath.

One tall corner lamp lit the room with a soft pale light. The clock on the wall above the fake electric wood fire turned ten o'clock. Jagger saw the hour hand move. The doorbell rang at exactly that moment and Jagger said, "It's him."

"Punctual, right on the dot," Vicky answered, sitting straighter.

Taking a breath, Jagger got up and went to the front door, but when the door came open, he found no one there. He went out onto the tiled top step, stopped and looked around. Nothing, not even a car. Puzzled, he went to the garden gate and looked down the street; again there was nothing, nobody. He shrugged and turned back for the house; here he saw Altair step out from the shadows under the door, his black eyes tipped with a faint red light.

"Altair!" Jagger fell back. "I didn't see you there."

"Jagger, no, you did not see me. I did not want you to see me, and if I do not want a man to see me, then he will not. Take my hand in greeting."

Unnerved, Jagger shook Altair's hand. They stared at each other a moment. Altair did not move, made no attempt to go in through the open door.

He said, "Diga por favor mi nombre."

"What?"

"Si, por favor, mi nombre. You must speak my name or I will not enter your house."

Jagger said, "Altair, please come inside." And he led his visitor into the living room, disturbed now by the Spaniard's peculiar behavior. Here he introduced his friend to his wife. "Altair, this is my wife, Vicky. Vicky, this is Altair Salvar from Spain."

Vicky stood up, smiling.

"Buenas noches, senora," Altair said, lifting her hand and kissing it. "Victoria."

She blushed and said, "No one's called me Victoria in years. It's nice to meet you at last; Jagger's told me all about you."

Altair did not let go of her hand, but studied her skin, saying, "You should not have your hands so worked. Your hands should be soft and delicate, not marked with work as they are."

"Well," Vicky answered, "I work in a factory, making nuts and bolts for trucks. I'm bound to get worn hands, aren't I?"

"No, no, I meant no insult. It is just that a beautiful woman like you should not be working. Your beauty should be protected." He looked at Jagger, a serious fire in his eyes. "You send your wife to work?"

"Man, we have a mortgage to pay, you know. We're not up to our necks in money like you. We couldn't keep this house on one wage. Get real Altair, and sit down, you're making me nervous." He pushed Altair down on to the sofa and the three of them sat in an uncomfortable silence.

Vicky said, "I'm sorry, Altair, but Jagger has no manners; he's too lazy to offer you a drink. Would you care for coffee or tea? Or something else? We have wine and beer. Or something to eat?"

She fussed, smoothing her hands down the front of her linen trousers, her white blouse accentuating and highlighting her dark brown hair that fell straight to her shoulders, framing her face.

Altair looked at her, staring. A quick feeling of loss and apprehension gripped Vicky's throat ... his eyes. The beauty of his physical form, the way he dressed, with that strange golden cup hanging from his belt ... he seemed to slip into her mind, snatching away her consciousness.

He said, "If you are to know me, then know that I will not eat or drink. Nothing for me."

"Nothing at all?"

"No, bebo solamente sangre. Yo como solamente sangre."

Vicky sat back down and pulled her legs up under her. Whatever he had said, she knew it meant no, meant something strange. She smiled, and it seemed an eternity to her that they sat in a constricting silence. The tension was so strong that she burst out laughing. "Can none of us speak?" she smiled.

"Have we not spoken?" Altair said. "I did not notice."

Jagger sat with his hands resting on the arms of his chair, legs apart. He said, "I can't believe this is happening. I have an interesting guest and I can't think of anything to say. I didn't see your car outside. Don't you have a Ferrari or something?"

Altair sat forward, charging the air. "I don't like cars. I have no car." He offered nothing more.

Jagger and Vicky exchanged glances--rich and beautiful and he had no car. How then did he travel?

They sat.

Altair said, "Jagger, remember our conversation in The Whippet? About the nature of evil? Remember evil? You have such ideas about it."

"Yeah, and speaking of evil, did you hear about the murder in Gwyngoed? They found a body in the churchyard, right up the road from The Whippet."

"Si, I heard about it. The police were like flies, swarming all over the village when I left. I could not stand it. I left to come and see you, Jagger, mi hermano." He lowered his voice. "You know there is no place on earth where a man can be safe from the hands of a killer. You must not think that you are safe, Jagger, Victoria. Be prepared for danger at all times--then you will survive."

"What a horrible thing to talk about," Vicky answered. "Why don't you tell us about Spain? Where do you come from, Altair?"

"Yeah," Jagger agreed, "Where were you born?"

Altair sat back; he told them just enough to interest them. "I was born and raised in Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia. I left Spain at an early age and I have not been back for many, many years."

"So why did you leave?" Jagger said.

"Bad things, evil things happened to me there. I left. I will not go back even though I love Santiago." His dark eyes gleamed. "I weep for Santiago and for all those who have never seen her. I have travelled the road El Camino de Santiago many times, have lived my life walking the Praza de Obradoiro; have kissed the jewelled cape of Saint Santiago, for would I wish to travel the road to purgatory? No, never, and even though I have my inheritance, my money, Spain and I have become parted souls. Spain, my lover--and there?" He stopped.

Vicky said, "Then you came to England?"

"I travelled widely in Spain. I lived in Toledo for many years before coming to Britain. So?" He looked at them, lapsing into Spanish as if they could understand him, "He estado viviendo en Inglatterra por siglos." He murmured something else in Spanish and trailed off. His words seemed to be spoken with pain, a feeling that touched them as they sat staring at him, stilled.

Vicky answered, a slight blush on her cheeks, "I'm sorry, Altair, we don't speak Spanish." She paused before saying, "How long have you lived in Gwyngoed?"

"A long time. How long have you lived in this house?"

"Five years. We're still paying it off, aren't we, Jag?"

"Yeah."

"Then you are caught in the mortgage trap," Altair said. "It should not be so."

"I told you we're ordinary. You shouldn't try and make us different."

"I can make you different. I will pay off your mortgage for you."

Altair eyed Jagger until he answered, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I can help you," Altair said. "I will release you, make your life better, after all, is this not why I came into your life?"

Jagger sat stunned, silenced, never before meeting such a man as this, never hearing such words.

Altair persisted, "If you allow me into your lives, both of you, I will pay your mortgage and free you, give you back a life while taking away another. I can do that. Only I can do that. I have a Spanish bank full of incredible riches. I am their richest patron."

Jagger answered, "We owe thirty thousand pounds; we can't afford children, and I can only just manage to run that broken-down car out there."

Altair now looked at Vicky. Her eyes were wide and he said, "Let me help you. Come, Jagger, free Victoria from the daily grind of boring drudgery. Her hands are worn and cut, poor Victoria."

Vicky could not understand this Spaniard's way of thinking, his sudden appearance in their lives, taking control of their lives. When she looked at him now, she saw his beauty shrouded in darkness, saw a light in his eyes that should not be there. A strange tightness gripped her throat again, as if an invisible hand were attempting to squeeze out her breath. Something about Altair disturbed her; and being an early riser, she stood up, pretending any excuse to escape something she could not name.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I'm going to bed. I really had a long day today and there's work again in the morning, but at least it's only a half-day on Saturdays. Goodnight Altair, I hope we'll see you again soon."

She left the room so suddenly that Jagger knew she had abandoned him. As if she were afraid and running. Jagger sat back. Altair looked at him; and when he did, the house creaked and groaned as if it were subsiding.

But it was only Vicky making her way upstairs, the creaking of the stairs.

Alone together now, Altair turned to Jagger, moved closer to him, so close he reached out and stroked his fingertips down the side of Jagger's face.

Jagger did not pull away. He felt a cold thrill, heard Altair say, "I was the youngest of four brothers. I could do nothing to help them."

When Jagger held Altair's gaze, he saw a reflective look in the Spaniard's eyes--a look that appeared to pull him back into the dark shadows cast over the wall behind him. And when he spoke, his voice seemed to come from far away.

"My father had high connections within the Holy Roman Church." Altair lowered his head as he spoke. "He had amassed huge wealth. The wealth of my father came to me. My three brothers saw nothing, nothing. There was a terrible wrong done to them."

Feeling Altair's breath on his neck, Jagger answered, "Then is that why you won't return to Spain, because of your brothers? They must resent you--if you inherited all your father's wealth and they saw nothing."

"Jagger, I wish my brothers had had the chance to resent me, but they did not. A terrible wrong was done to them."

"Your father betrayed them."

"Si, he did, and he did something to me, but he paid, he paid."

Again that strange silence. A silence without time, where Altair looked into Jagger's eyes and fixed him still for hours. Time passed and Jagger did not know it. There was only an extraordinary quiet, a frozen darkness in the Spaniard's eyes. He seemed to sleep, yet was awake, where a moment became an eternity.

At once Altair came to his feet, a looming shadow. He stood rigid, like a statue. Jagger sat in his chair and watched him, unable to look away.

"I can feel Victoria sleeping," the Spaniard said, turning to look out of the window and away into the dark street. "I can feel her breathing, deep before the dawn. Do you not see her beauty? Under the moonlight, she will shine. Listen! Pajaros. El sol se esta levantando."

"Altair, I don't understand. Stay tonight. You can sleep in the spare room. Stay here for the night."

"I cannot stay here," Altair answered; he turned and leant over Jagger with a fierce light in his eyes, his breathing heavy. "Come and see me go."

"Don't be stupid man, stay here."

"Jagger, the sun rises. For the children of the night, the sun burns us."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come to the door." Altair held out his hand.

Jagger got up and walked with him to the little garden gate, not understanding why Altair should want to run away into the night. It was dark outside, so dark the house seemed to rear up at Jagger's back, a black crushing edifice.

He looked at Altair and Altair lifted his top lip, displaying two top canine teeth that appeared unnaturally extended. Only now did Jagger believe himself dreaming, believe he was being drawn towards those teeth with a sudden desire that was too powerful to resist. Once more Altair lifted a hand to stroke Jagger's face; he pulled Jagger out of the gate and into the street.

"Until we meet again." He bowed before turning and fleeing across the street.

Standing frozen, watching him go, Jagger felt abandoned to the night, seeing the figure of Altair climbing the twelve-foot-high wall that bordered the park at the end of the street. Altair, crawling against gravity up the face of the wall before dropping over the side and vanishing into the dark. Jagger saw all of this, and he could not move.