Saturday: 

Tom dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen for his morning cuppa.  He’d gone to bed first, and it made perfect sense that he was the first awake.  He managed to make a decent cup of tea without breaking, spilling, or burning anything and settled against the counter, sipping his tea and trying to wake up.  He ran a hand through his hair, absently trying to flatten it.  The night before had been so strange.  The gaming was fun, and he learned loads about himself as an actor, but the interruption with Roland...

Tom was sure Genevieve and the others were innocent.  They had answered questions easily, and seemed sincere in their defense against anti-gaming prejudice.  But Meg was even scarier.  The look in her eyes when Roland had gone to draw her sword, and the coldness in her eyes...was that what people meant when they talked about the eyes of a killer, the coldness of a killer?  And what was in that letter that made Roland so angry?  He remembered the night he’d first really met her, when she was dressed like a samurai.  The two sticks she’d left resting against the wall near the front door, those must have been two of her swords.

If she wore them, if she drew them - did that mean she drew blood with them?  Had she killed?

No one had been killed last night; was that proof it was Meg because she had been occupied?  Only one day had passed with no one dying.  Tom knew that he’d be on tenterhooks every night and every morning, checking the new and newspapers to make sure no boys had been murdered.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of his tea.  Maybe he ought to talk to Meg.  Just ask her.  Confront her with the truth.  Because it felt strange and almost painful when he closed his eyes and remembered her eerie voice, the way she hid behind her hair, the way her mouth felt as she nibbled on his neck.

Tom shook his head, trying to clear it.  He should do some homework, laze around, and then go to the pub with the lads.  Out at the pub with the lads; that was gentle and sweet and ordinary.  Barely a week ago Tom had finished filming his second shot at the big screen, and he was looking forward to ordinary life again, just hanging out with his friends.

Ordinary life obviously meant being the object of obsession for a crazed serial killer.  Tom sighed and finished his cuppa.  He set the cup and saucer in the dishwasher and eyed the fridge, considering breakfast.  Toast, bacon buttie, or eggs and sausage?

The doorbell rang.  Tom sighed.  It was probably Shelley, who had probably forgotten her key.  He ambled out of the kitchen and pulled open the front door.

“Shelley, you have a key of your own for a reason,” he said, rubbing his eyes blearily.  Then a dozen flashbulbs went off, and he yelped.

Tom jerked back, one hand over his eyes.  Voices assaulted him, and he was suddenly horribly aware that he wore only a pair of loose cotton pajama bottoms.  When he dared to open his eyes, he saw a crowd of reporters on the driveway.  Tom spun around and slammed the door shut.  He sank against it, heart racing.

“Is everything all right?” his mother asked.  She came out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee.

“There are reporters on the driveway.”

Elaine frowned.  “Did you answer the door underdressed like that?”

“I thought it was Shelley.”  He groaned and checked the peephole.  “They’re not going away.”

“Why would Shelley ring the doorbell?” Elaine asked.  She nudged Tom aside and surveyed the crowd of reporters.  Their address and phone number had been unlisted for years, mostly to dissuade Elaine’s former husband.

“Because she always forgets her key,” Chris mumbled.  He yawned.  “Why are we talking about Shelley?”

“Never mind.  Seems the news has found us,” Elaine said.

Chris almost choked on his tea.  “What?  Should I call the police?”

Elaine counted heads.  “There aren’t very many of them.”  Over her shoulder, she said, “Chris, come ask them what they want.”

That woke him up.  “But Mum, I’m only in my dressing gown - I’m drinking my tea --”

A hand closed over his shoulder and shoved him toward the door.  “Do what your mother says, Christopher,” Shane said.

Chris only managed a scowl at his elder bother before he found himself on the doorstep with the door closed in his face.  He sighed, sipped his tea, and turned to face the crowd of reporters.

“It’s a trifle early to be out on a Saturday morning,” he said.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Is Tom Phillips home?” a woman asked.  She wore a Daily Mail press badge.

“As I’m sure you can tell from earlier, Tom is something of a best before he’s had breakfast and coffee,” Chris hedged.

“I don’t drink coffee!” someone’s voice yelled, muffled through the door.

Chris rolled his eyes.  “Is it something important?”  he asked, scanning the reporters.  “Because if it’s not, Tom’s currently single, his favorite color his green, and he’s a firm fan of Arsenal, but he won’t say no to AC Milan.”

The reporters blinked, surprised.

“Well, if that’s all, have a good day!”  Chris saluted them with his mug and darted back into the house.  As soon as the door was locked and bolted, he turned on Shane.  “Next time, you get to do it.”

Elaine checked the peephole again.  “Thanks so much, Chris.  They’re leaving.”

Chris knocked back the last of his tea.  “Glad to hear it.  I’m off.”

Shane turned to his youngest brother.  “You’d best stay inside for the rest of the day, mate.”

Tom nodded and sighed.  “Yeah.  I have homework.  But, erm, it’s pub night.  For me, Jono, and Mike.”

Elaine looked torn.  She desperately wanted her son to be safe, but she wanted him to have as normal a time as possible while at home.  “Well, I suppose if you walk with someone, you can go out.”

“I’ll go,” Chris offered.  “I’ll call Genevieve and have her meet me there since our date went astray last night.”

Elaine looked alarmed at this, and she missed the mischievous looks that passed between her eldest and youngest sons.

* * *

Tom kept the hood of his jacket up as he and Chris headed down to the Black Swan, and no one took any notice of the local celebrity.  However, as soon as he crossed the threshold of the warm, crowded pub, Mike and Jono pounced on him.

Mike gave Tom a noogie as he shrugged out of his coat.

“Must you fuss my hair so?” Tom grumbled, attempting to struggle free of his friend and his coat.

Jono watched and smirked.  “Saw you on the news this afternoon, Phillips.”

Tom scowled and jerked free.  “I need a pint.”

“According to my sister, little Angela was set quite a-flutter at seeing you in such a state of deshabille,” Jono continued.  He followed on Tom’s heels.  “You secretly been going down the gym?  You didn’t have those abs or those arms when you left.”

Tom rolled his eyes.  “I’ve finished my growth spurt, short-stuff, and now I’m filling out.  When I left I was a stick, and it’s only natural that I begin to develop some muscle.”

Mike leered.  “So clear on your biological clock, eh?  You know a man’s biological clock involves a bit of slap-n-tickle with a lady --”

Tom shot them both venomous glares and waded toward the bar.  He slapped a fiver down and signaled for a pint.  As soon as it arrived, he cradled it in his hands and seated himself at the most shadowed table he could find.  A few moments later, the other two joined him.

“What’s the hurry, mate?” Mike asked.

Tom swallowed a mouthful of beer and shoved the mug across the table at Mike.  “Drink,” he ordered.

Mike obeyed cautiously.  “Why?”

“Liquid courage and pre-game celebration,” Tom said and pushed the mug toward Jono.  “Chris is meeting Genevieve here.  Last night Shane didn’t quite make the raid, so we rearranged things and Shane will try his tricks last.  We reckoned that a shock from a family member will be more of a surprise than Mike’s jester shtick.”

“Hey!” Mike protested.

Jono nodded thoughtfully and swilled some beer.  “That’s a great strategy.  And the first confrontation will be in a public place, too.”  He craned his neck.  “Are they here yet?”

“What’s the plan, then?” Mike asked.

Tom clapped him on the shoulder.  “Be yourself, mate.”

“Found them.”  Jono let a sly grin cross his face.  “Come on.”

He led the way through the crowd, one eye on the couple.  They were talking, heads bent close.  The three boys hovered and watched.  Jono’s grin widened when Chris and Genevieve leaned in to kiss.  Jono broke through the crowd and thumped into the empty chair at the table.  Chris and Genevieve jerked apart guiltily.

“Chris!  How absolutely corking to see you,” Jono said. His face was the picture of innocence.

Chris turned a murderous glare on his little brother.  “Tom!”

Tom grinned cheekily.  Chris looked horrified when Mike sat down.  Some days Tom wondered why his friends, especially Mike, weren’t actors, because they could be utterly articulate and charming when they deemed it necessary.

“You must be the lovely Genevieve,” Mike said.  “Tom’s told us all about you, and since you so kindly introduced him to your friends we insisted you meet her.”  He held out one hand.  “Mike Hayleigh.”

Genevieve laughed and shook the proferred hand.  “Pleasure to meet you Mike, and Jono as well.  I’ve been told many a tale about the three musketeers.”  From the gleam in her eye, Tom knew that she knew exactly what was going on.  “I’m Genevieve Pierrot.” 

Jono took her hand.  “Jonothon Pryce, but please, call me Jono.  Pierrot, you say?  Parlez-vous français?”

“Bien sûr.  Je suis française.”

“Enchanté, Madamoiselle,” Jono said, and kissed her hand.

When Genevieve just laughed and took it, Tom knew she was just as brave and high-spirited as Shelley; he liked her.

Chris watched the three younger boys smoothly insinuate themselves into the middle of his date.  He buried his head in his arms and groaned.

* * *

Tom, Jono, and Mike, all slightly tipsy, staggered up the hill toward Tom’s house.  They laughed too loudly in the late night, recounting their systematic ruin of the date and the admirable way in which Genevieve had stood up to them.  In the end they’d relented and left the couple some private time before Genevieve drove Chris back to the dorms, so the Three Musketeers headed for home together.

Tom stood on the doorstep and fumbled for his keys while Jono and Mike giggled.  As soon as Tom unlocked the front door Mike and Jono set off for their own homes, leaning on each other a little too heavily.  Those two had always drunk more than Tom.  He lingered in the doorway and watched them stumble back down the hill.  He wished desperately that neither of them would fall.

As he turned to head inside, he thought he caught a glimpse of a person, a figure with exotic black robes, long dark hair and a pair of killing swords.

* * *

He watched the boy closely.  This one had perfect hands, long, graceful, skilled hands.  They were deft even though they fumbled with the keys in inebriation.  So this one was old enough to go drinking at the pub.  At least he’d been smart enough to stay more sober than his friends. 

He was a smart boy indeed.

He would get the boy tomorrow.  After the boy’s scheduled visit to church he tended to run off alone, and e could take the boy then, the boy and his pretty hands.

* * *

She watched him, and she knew what he was thinking.  She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the he was behind the murders.  She’d seen the map, seen the chart, seen the picture.  The bloody knife, even.  She knew he was guilty, knew he sought his next victim even now.  She knew what he kept in the back room, the one far away from hers.  She knew, and she didn’t feel guilty.

She wanted vengeance too.