Rhymin' Simon turned to find Magenta unconscious on the pub floor. God, he was so sick of carrying that woman into the car, she drank too much and it was just embarassing. Here was Micca and Col K to help, as usual, Thanks, mates, she's got a good heart. They crammed her into the back seat of the car, with her sequined clutch bag and handkerchief. Her legs were always a hassle to get in - so long, but tonight they seemed strangely floppy.

As Simon adjusted the velvet collar of her cape, he shuddered, and shrank back - there, in her tripe-white neck, were two ..puncture holes.

No, he thought, no. Surely she hasn't been hitting the hard stuff?



What a strange place to inject.

As he revved up the engine of his landrover, Simon pondered on life. It was a choice between tolerance and loneliness, between cleaning up after yourself or being nagged by Magenta. What the hell, they'd walked this road before. Strange about those puncture marks on the neck.