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The End. Just the two words together looked good.

“But,” he mused, “I do like the full stop.

Paul Torvino was satisfied.

He had final finished his novel, started after a writers block that had lasted for nearly six, very frustrating months.

Paul saved the story to his hard drive, then a copy to floppy disc and another to his pen drive. He wasn’t taking any chances.

“What is it?” He muttered, “Better safe than sorry.”

Then he closed Word and powered down his p.c.

The monitor had been the rooms only light source for three days, in which time his family had not seen him; during which time he had written continually, stopping only for coffee breaks and thee occasional glass of malt whiskey.

He had started smoking again, much to his wife’s disapproval: and, the large onyx ashtray, sitting to his right,

The curtains were drawn together, and the room smelt stale.

Paul stood and stretched, before crossing the room and turning the lights on, to stare into the mirror, once more.

His wife Helen had run the house and seen to the children, whilst he’d shut himself away, since his last drive.

He still recalled that first time; and a desire for a smoke, after several hours spent staring at a blank screen, again.

It had almost become a routine, as Paul found that each time he went out driving he found the motivation he’d been seeking, as each journey had acted as a catalyst to prompt his further writing.

Yet that first drive he had told himself he was after ‘petrol and fags.’

But, once both had been acquired Paul had continued driving, just for the enjoyment of it; and, being away from his computer and the pressure to write its presence created.

Torvino had driven with his windows down, elbows on the sill: down Rowson Street, through King Street and then Church Street, Seacombe, where he’d taken the Birkenhead Road leading onto the Four Bridges; cruising for the pleasure of it.

It’d been a sunny day, with a blue sky and only a light wind.

“Perfect,” he recalled thinking at the time.

In the town centre he had parked the car – to wander, eventually buying himself a packet of cigarettes.

Then, on his return he had taken a road he seldom used. And, as he had continued driving, Torvino had noticed as much as possible: simply pleased to be away from four walls and his computer.

And, with his eyes alert, for anything and everything, he had noticed an altercation occurring just ahead of him, to his left, between a young woman; perhaps in her late teens and a young man, somewhat older, wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans; old red and white baseball boots on his feet.

They’d been arguing loudly outside a pub at the end of a row of terraced housing.

And, as he’d driven toward the pair on his left the shouting had become louder – the younger man’s face contorted with anger.

“It isn’t enough,” the fellow had, “not for you and me…”

Torvino had slowed down.

She’d looked small and vulnerable, he had thought: and, Torvino had wanted to help.

Yet, Paul Torvino didn’t relish conflict, he never had.

Even so, he’d stopped alongside the couple, as the young man had continued his verbal tirade,

“Goddamn girl, I send you out. And, after four hours that’s all you have… Goddamn… you are…”

Paul had opened his door; then, with the engine still running, he had rushed round the car, shouting, “Get off her!”

“This isn’t your business,” the young man had snarled, snapping his head round to face Torvino.

Then, sounding far more courageous than he’d felt, Torvino had retorted, “It is my business, that’s my niece you’re with…”

Momentarily stunned by what he’d heard, the youth had loosened his hold on the young woman.

The girl had struggled and squirmed within his tight embrace and then she’d been free.

“C’mon honey…!” Torvino had encouraged, offering her his left hand, as he opened the passenger car door with his right.

The young woman had sat quickly and Torvino closed the door, then turned to the young man, whose face had been red with anger.

“I don’t know what you got going with my niece sunshine; but, go now. Or, I swear down, I’ll rip you in two.”

And, perhaps it had been the quiet menace behind his voice: or perhaps it had shown that Torvino had not been prepared to back down?

But, either way, the young man would not hold his gaze.

Snarling beneath his breath, “She ain’t worth it…” he’d turned, spat to the floor and begun walking away.

Yet, he had thought she was worth it.

Paul turned from the mirror and crossed the room toward the drinks cabinet.

He poured himself a scotch, a double; and sat in his favorite armchair, waiting for the approaching dawn and the beginning of a new day.

He closed his eyes for a moment; yet that was all that was that moment’s relaxation was all his memory needed, as it brought to his mind the young woman once more, whose presence in his life had given him so much.

Since meeting her he had poured his soul into his writing in order to reach where he had and those to words, ‘the end.’

Yet now there was a hole inside that needed filling.

Paul stood and began pacing the room.

After writing continually for nearly two days, lack of sleep had led to his current state,

Overtired and hyper,

He had to do something: and thinking of her, Torvino knew what to do.

Looking into the mirror, at his disheveled appearance, staring back at him: pale blue eyes and tousled hair; even his shirt untucked and crumpled, much as he felt.

Torvino placed both his hands on his hands and stretched to his left, right; then, gently backwards.

He’d finished the story, which had been the bane of his existence, for months now.

Torvino smiled at the satisfaction found from his act of creation: and once again he thought of his roadside muse. Without her he never would have finished.

And, he left the house, so as not to wake the Helen, or the girls, Gina and Jennifer.

Breathing in the cool early morning air and watching his breath as he exhaled, Paul Torvino found himself wishing for a moment that he’d worn a jacket.

But, as he walked toward his Maroon Lexus he thought, ‘The heater will warm me up soon enough.’ His pride and joy, the Lexus GS 400 had been his gift to himself when his youngest, Gina, was born.

Smiling, Paul remembers his wife remember asking what her present was.

And, he’d just had to say to this post-natal woman, his wife, ‘You had yours, a beautiful, healthy baby girl.’

He let the car roll down the drive, still conscious of waking the family.

Starting the engine he grins, recalling how Helen hadn’t spoken to him for several hours, before finally relenting and deciding to forgive him.

Even then it had taken flowers and chocolates, in order for her to consider his apologies.

And as the car warmed, he recalled the admiring looks the girl had given his car.

“Is this yours mister?” the teen had asked Paul as she’d entered the car.

Taking his own seat, Torvino had turned to answer proudly, “Yes.”

“It’s a nice motor,” she had told him approvingly, as he had started the engine and pulled away from the curbside.

“Thanks mister,” she’d said, after long moments of silence, “I’d thought he’d never do that to me, not again. Not after last time.”

“You mean he’s done it before?” he’d asked with incredulity.

“But, you can’t blame him, really. He’d done without since breakfast and I figure he was just starting to gag for it. You know?”

Paul had realized he should say ‘no’ but, hadn’t. He’d let her continue talking.

Then she’d added, “But whatever… I appreciate what you did.”



And he remembers that smile she had smiled then.

“I’m Lucie,” she’d pronounced, in a sing-song voice, the previous altercation seeming already forgotten.

“Er, I’m Paul. Paul Torvino,” he told her looking from the road, to her.

And, he recalls still, how his mouth has suddenly turned dry.

As she had shifted in her seat to make herself comfortable, her skirt had ridden higher, to put her bare legs on display, as far as her hip.

And he’d like d the way she’d dressed.

She had worn calf-length black boots, a short orange and black shirt and a white shirt, which had been tied off at the chest, leaving her midriff bare.

And, he still recalled how appealing he had found her face.

Her black hair had been worn tied back in a high ponytail. She’d possessed wide eyes, full cheeks; a small pert nose; and full lips, heavily painted red.

Even with her sitting next to him as evidence of what had happened, Paul Torvino had been shell-shocked, as his actions had been so out of character for him.

He just didn’t do things like that – yet he had.

‘Furthermore,’ he’d thought, ‘I’m glad I did.’

He felt good having done what he had.

Turning his eyes and his attention back to the road ahead, Torvino spoke:

“So, where to?” He finally asked, after driving, just driving, in silence.

“So, where to Lucie? She had reminded him.

Then, smiling, she had reached into her capacious black bag, with two handles, a shoulder strap; and a zipped up middle pouch.

Lucie had undone the zip, pulled out a clear plastic self-seal pouch; and looking at its contents,, she had declared, “If he hadn’t been so nasty I would’ve shared my stash with him…”

Torvino had wanted to ask, ‘where to?’

He’d realized how late it had become and Helen would have the evening meal ready.

Yet, his curiosity had been piqued; and, insisted he ask: “Who was he?”

“My boyfriend,” she’d replied simply, which had only acted to arouse Paul Torvino’s curiosity further still.

“Your boyfriend?” He’d queried, “But he was about to beat on you, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe, maybe not…” she’d informed him blithely, adding, “but, he loves me.”

“What!” Torvino had exploded, “But how can you say that? By your own admission he might’ve been going to beat you up!?!”

“He’d not had any since eleven this morning and business was bad this afternoon.”

“Whoa,” Torvino had begun, “let’s get this right, you work the streets to keep him supplied with? Heroin?”

Her eyes flashing brightly with anger, Lucie had snapped at him, “”What are you, a bloody social worker?”

And, feeling suitably admonished, Torvino had quietly repeated his earlier question:

“So, where to?”

And, with her smile back in place, Lucie had directed him where to drive.

Torvino remembers her smile well, musing; ‘It’s time for a cigarette.’

The early morning air was cool and crisp: and the roads free of traffic as he pulled over a moment, to light a cigarette, recalling that he had taken her where she’d asked, content to drive, Helen and the children momentarily forgotten.

He had parked the car as Lucie had suggested, by the curbside, in a side-alley behind an old derelict building.

Torino had locked the car, after an assurance that she thought it would be safe, then he had followed her, as instructed.

They had passed through a break in a wall surrounding the brick strewn overgrown yard.

Then she had led him; her small hand in his, through the darkness.

The air had smelt dank; and, Torvino had felt it confining; the darkness; and, no sense of where he was.

And then there had been her voice, gentle, insistent, as she pulled him forward.

“I won’t be a second…” she had told him; and he’d been alone… his hand empty…

Then, one by one, Lucie had lit a multitude of candles around the small room, providing enough illumination for him to easily see.

He’d been standing at the foot of a mattress, made up with several blankets and a coverlet thrown over it. There’d also been two pillows, side by side; both in pillow cases, blue with gold stars and moons on them. On the walls had been posters, of neo-classical romantic imagery; and a couple of semi-naked men, dipping with sweat, or baby oil.

And, as Torvino had looked round himself he’d noticed just two other items of furniture, other than the bed: a small wooden locker, either side of it; other than that, just two suitcases. The candles had sat on every available flat space around the room, including the floor.

Lucie had stood in the middle of the bed, bounced, then gestured around herself:

“Welcome to my little boudoir!”

Back on the road, Paul smiled at the memory of what had happened next, as Lucie had shared more of herself with him.

“You okay?” She had asked, concern evident in her voice.

She had begun to unfasten the zipper to the short tartan skirt, which she had slid down slim pale legs and her black boots, to the floor.

Torvino had watched, open-eyed, as Lucie stood in the middle of the mattress, then opened her blouse and lifted the bra away from the petite mounds of her breasts with no trace of inhibition.

Then, she had reached up and unfastened the clasp in her hair and shook her hair loose.

As long black hair framed her face as her tresses fell, Lucie had quickly turned from a sexy teen, to a sultry vamp, in his eyes, as he’d gazed with longing once again.

Then, as candlelight had danced around the room, Torvino had stared, mesmerized, at the rosette teats, of her ever-so slightly, elongated nipples.

He’d gazed with longing once again, at her breasts now naked.

Eyes riveted to the rosette tips of each breast, the nipples hard: ‘Perhaps with the cold?’ he had mused, aware that it wasn’t too cold.

And, for a second, the silence that had followed her disrobing was uncomfortable.

Then, as she had sat cross-legged, wearing just the briefest of white cotton briefs, Lucie had asked him, “Are you okay?”

“Yes fine,” he’d assured her with a dry mouth.

But, Torvino hadn’t been ‘okay.’

He’d felt uncomfortable that he felt caught out, peeping, at a young woman, not that much older than his eldest daughter.

He’d felt very uncomfortable and his mouth had felt very dry.

“It’s my place,” Lucie had told him, as she had sat cross-legged, to pull off her boots and socks and adding, “I do like to feel comfortable.”

Wriggling her bare toes she had sighed, “Ah, that’s better!”

Torvino had stared still, at the sheer white cotton drawn tight across her pubis, so that through the sheer material he’d easily been able to tell that she shaved.

And, he’d drawn his eyes back to hers, mumbling, “Maybe I should go now?”

“You don’t have to,” she had told him, rooting beneath the mattress, “unless you want to?” He hadn’t known what to do, so instead of making a decision, had muttered, “Dunno.”

Then he had sat on the end of the mattress, watching; and said to her; “Not yet. If you don’t mind? I don’t want to go, just yet. I s that okay?”

He’d felt nervous, very.

“Nah, I don’t mind,” she’d assured him grinning: “In fact, I’d like the company. I get real lonely, sometimes…”

He recalls how Lucie’s face had darkened somewhat as she had spoken.

Then, almost as quickly as her manner had changed, it changed again.

“Sit down will you,” she told had him tersely, and then added in a kinder voice, “You’re just too big and I need the light. So, sit down, will you?”

Paul had sat where she had gestured, at the end of the bed.

Then, having rummaged in the bag once more, to retrieve the small plastic bag, Lucie had rooted beneath the mattress.

And, Torvino had watched, fascinated, as she had laid out the equipment needed for he habit: a piece of cooking foil of ; a small mirror, just a little smaller; a small tube of card, taped together either end; and a Clipper lighter.

To the stuff laid before her, Lucie had added the bag, which she’d placed upon the mirror. Finally, seemingly satisfied that thing’s were in order, Lucie had run the fingers of her right hand through her hair and she had looked up at Paul and asked:

“Hey mister straight head, you want a blow back? ” She’d asked him, adding, “I’m good at giving ‘em.”

“I’ll try anything once,” he answered boastfully.

Lucie had beamed a wide smile as asked, in return, then she had leant forward, over her stuff laid out, resting her weight on her left hand.

She had then trailed the tip of her left forefinger down Paul Torvino’s left cheek, saying in a mock little girl voice, “You’ll try anything once? Really?”

As Torvino had blushed profusely, Lucie had sat back, quickly adopting the cross-legged position she’d sat in earlier.

And, grinning broadly she’d asked him once more, “You want a blow back?”

He’d been tempted. Very. But, guessing his driving might be impaired by a ‘blowback,’ he’d replied, “No, thank you…”

“S’okay,” she had replied, “and anyway, you don’t hold it in so long if you’re not going to give. So, er… thanks.”

Lucie had picked up the piece of kitchen foil, which she held between forefinger and thumb. And then, using her Clipper, she had burnt either side of the foil.

Looking up at the Torvino briefly she’d explained to him, “Getting rid of the crap.”

“The crap…” Torvino had repeated parrot-like.

“The aluminium,” Lucie had clarified, finishing her task.

Then having straightened out the ‘cleaned’ foil Lucie picked up the bag she had shown

him earlier.

“I mean,” she had continued, “you don’t get that sort of thing with a Kit Kat.”

Torvino had watched fascinated, as the teen unsealed the bag and tipped a little of it’s

content onto the foil and held either end of the foil between forefinger and middle-finger She had then pulled a taut crease down its midpoint and then opened the foil out and held it carefully at a corner between forefinger and thumb.

And then placing the foil tube between her lips, Lucie had applied heat beneath the foil.

Very quickly the white powder had turned to a bubbling blob of oil, which gave off a blue-grey smoke.

Lucie had inhaled upon the smoke, tilting the foil as she had, so allowing the oil to travel up and down the foil.

Torvino had stared at her lips, heavily coated in a thick rich red gloss; and, at their centre a four inch tube of foil, turned at its ends ‘to catch any residue,’ as he had later learnt.



He had looked into the brunette’s eyes… as she used the tube, to inhale the fumes produced by slow burning the flame beneath the foil she held carefully between forefinger and thumb.

She had drawn in a slight breath, and then continued to apply heat again beneath the foil, drawing the flame from one end of the foil to the other.

As the smoke drifted upward, she drew it in, taking the bittersweet tasting smoke deep into her lungs, which she held deep into her longs for long seconds, before exhaling slowly.

She had refolded the small packet very carefully. Then Lucie had leant forward, both hands on the bed, breathing heavily.

After several seconds Lucie had sat erect and smiled; and she had sighed with pleasure.

“Oh yes,” she’d murmured, “that was good, that was clean.”

“You okay, Paul Torvino?” She had asked him, slurring, a little.

“I’m going to go sleepy – soon,” she’d told him, wavering a little from side to side.

Then she asked him, “Am I gonna see you again?”

“Would you want to?” He’d queried.

“Yes.” She’d assured him, with certainty; and then added, “So, can I have your number?”

“What about your boyfriend?” He’d asked.

And she’d laughed, assuring him, “It’s not my boyfriend you’re giving it to.”

Then, she had crawled cat-like, toward him, breasts swaying, eyes glinting with mischief.

Lucie had picked at the buttons on his shirt, and then opened several.

He had watched every movement; and then closed his eyes as he sighed at her touch, as she had run a nail down the middle of the flesh exposed; and inclining her head a little in curiosity, she had run the nail of the middle finger on her right hand across his right nipple, causing him to moan a little, with the unexpected nature of his first taste of the conundrum of pain and pleasure.

“You accept me, as I am…” she had said softly, and then added, “you don’t judge me, or ask me stupid questions.”

Lucie had smiled, and then with glazed eyes, begun to undo his shirt buttons, one by one.

“What are you doing?” Torvino had queried of her, as he had looked down at Lucie, as she had stared up at him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” She had asked, a light mischievous smile on her face, as small dexterous fingers had undone the last shirt button, leaving his chest bare.

Lucie had placed her hand on his hips and leant forward, to kiss his right nipple.

Then she’d drawn the nubbin of flesh into her mouth and began to suckle, gently.

And Torvino had sighed with a pleasure; he enjoyed a sensation he’d not with Helen.

Then, she had wavered a little. And, sitting back to the middle of the bed once more, Lucie had declared, “I think… I’m going to crash…”

Then making an effort to focus on Paul, Lucie had straightened her back.

“You okay, Paul Torvino?” She had asked him, her words running one into the other.

She had sat back and looked at Paul with a fixed, glazed stare.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Paul had assured her.

Then, as her eyes had dulled, Lucie had asked in a slurred voice: “You want my mobile number, Paul?”

And, before he had answered, she had reached into her capacious bag once more, to retrieve her phone.

Punching at some numbers, Lucie brought her phones number to the screen, which she’d hastily written down on the insert from a discarded cigarette packet near the mattress.

She ripped the card around the number she’d written and then Lucie had leant forward and passed it to him, saying; “Do keep in contact, okay?”

And he smiles, as he recalls that on instinct he’d given her his own mobile number, never really thinking that he would see her again.

Paul remembers, that with closing eyelids, she had muttered, “You okay getting home. I think I’m going to crash…”

He had felt uncomfortable: no longer able to view her naked body sexually.

And, Paul had pulled the sheets and blankets over her small body, as he would Gina, his youngest.

He had looked down at Lucie for a moment had seen his eldest, Jennifer, in her place.

‘There was only a few years difference,’ he had reminded himself sadly.

He hadn’t extinguished the candles before leaving.

But, he had tidied away her ‘kit.’

As Lucie had lain curled into a fetal ball beneath blankets, Paul had left the damp smelling derelict building.

He had stepped carefully each step of the way back to the car, conscious that he no longer to act as his guide.

Then, having found his way back to the main road and his car, Torvino had driven home, to his wife and the girls.

And, she had phoned him the next day, during the early hours, while his family was asleep. Paul had been busy at work, sitting before the monitor; and, finding words and meaning, whereas just two days earlier his mind had been as blank as any piece of A4 paper, sitting in the printer.

She had phoned ‘for a quick chat,’ as she’d told him.

Then, after about half an hour, she had asked him to phone her back, “ ‘coz my credits nearly gone.”

Paul had done as she had asked, pleased she had phoned; pleased he could be there for her. And, he had grown to look forward to and appreciate her early morning phone-calls, made when she had felt alone: and, lonely.

They’d talked about anything and everything, rarely flirting: but, they had.

And then early one morning that he’d heard his mobile ring before his wife, thankfully.

“I need company, she’d told him simply.

So, still bleary-eyed, Torvino had dressed.

He’d driven to meet her, of course.

Then, when he’d arrived at her ‘home,’ Lucie had met him at the curbside, her eyes far darker than usual.

Paul hadn’t been prepared for the change he’d seen in his young friend.

“You know Lucie,” Torvino had said as he began to drive, “ “you’re caught in a process of self-destruction.

It’d been the first time he’d criticized her lifestyle.

She wasn’t his daughter, she was Lucie: but, he had cared and had to say something.

“I know,” she’d answered, sounding very tired.

And, with a desire to see her smile, Paul Torvino had continued to drive, to Blackpool.

Both of them had spoken little during the journey, each of them pleased that they were traveling, content to have the others company.

And Torvino smiles as he remembers taking Lucie to the fair, paying for Lucie to go on several rides. It’d pleased Paul to see her laugh as his daughters had when he taken them, just the summer before.

And then, at the end of the day they had parked up at the prom; and Torvino has watched the sun set, with Lucie’s head resting on his shoulder as she slept.

But that had been the last time that he had seen Lucie.

She had rung though.

He’d been going round the shops with Helen, so hadn’t answered the call.

Yet, Paul had her of her though, when the local police had phoned him.

They had said it was important that they talk.

So, Paul had attended the interview, as requested.

He’d learnt they’d contacted him as his number was on the phone of ‘one Lucie Harris, deceased.’

His guts had churned at the discovery of her death.

And, of course he’d asked, ‘What happened?’

They’d told him, ‘She hit up something bad.’

And, Paul had left the interview, weeping.

To the police she had just been ‘another junkie.’

Yet, she’d been more than that, to him, so much more.

‘And anyway,’ he’d considered, ‘she never used a spike. She chased.

He’d felt there was something wrong: and continued to cry as he had driven home.

That had just been two, or three days ago.

He didn’t know.

Now, as he drives, Paul recalls the fear in her voice the times she had told him of Kevin, her boyfriend. And, with a tight smile Paul realized where he was driving.

It wasn’t… the end.