Date: Fri, 1 Aug 1997 11:17:33 -0400 (EDT)

From: Ginef@aol.com

Subject: NEW: Alone I Keep the Wolves at Bay (1/2) by ginef



TITLE: Alone I Keep the Wolves at Bay

AUTHOR: ginef@aol.com 

CATEGORIES:  S  A

RATING: R (lots of profanity and adult situations)

DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere with my name on it

SPOILERS: Foreshadowing of "Fire" and "Grotesque"

FEEDBACK: Yes, please



SUMMARY: It's Oxford, 1981, and Phoebe has just dumped Mulder, leaving him to

struggle to find a reason to go on. 



DISCLAIMER: I have borrowed the characters Fox Mulder, Phoebe Greene and Bill

Patterson from "The X-Files" and will be returning them unscathed (okay,

Mulder's getting a cheap dye job, bad haircut and couple of extra holes in

his head, but at least they aren't bullet holes). They are the property of

Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. I have used them without

permission. Liam and the rest are a figment of my own demented imagination.

I've been up to my old tricks again... infringing at will. I've numbered my

transgressions and a list is at the end of this story. No copyright

infringement is intended. 



THANKS: To my beta readers-- Tracey, PG, Ghitsa, Marlene, Kim and Colleen.

You keep me honest. To Darin Morgan and UberVince, both of whom are a daily

inspiration. And to Chris Carter, DD, GA and everyone who brings these

fascinating characters to life.



NOTES: In England, what North Americans would refer to as private schools are

called public schools and sometimes "pissed" means drunk rather than angry.

Confused yet? I know I am. Sorry about all the swearing. 





Oxford University, England

May 1981



"Ta," she'd said and waltzed out of the pub and my life without a care while

my little cosmology was collapsing inward like a dying star, sucking the air

from my lungs and the reason from my being. I didn't even feel the pint glass

shatter in my convulsing fist or the stout mixing with the blood flowing

freely from the gash I'd created. The buzzing in my ears was obscuring the

concerned voices around me asking if I was okay. I knew I was gone. That I'd

retreated to that safe place, on another plane, a place I hadn't visited

since... Samantha. I closed my eyes and let myself cease to exist.



No such luck. I'm still alive. 



They didn't even have the decency to keep me in hospital for a week this

time. Just a quick trip to the emergency room for a few stitches and voila,

I'm here alone on my bed staring up at my poster of Ian Curtis. Who knows.

Maybe the guy had the right fucking idea when he checked out of here. At the

time I'd been pissed, you know? But what's the point, really. "Love will tear

us apart" (1) indeed. Goddamn Phoebe. She's been fucking Thomas Browne. For a

month. Oh God, how could she?



I look down at my bandaged palm. I can see my blood, red and sticky, seeping

through the cotton already. If I drained it all and got new, would I be a

different person? Would she want me then? The doctor said I was lucky. Two

inches lower and I would have severed the artery and died. Yeah, lucky

fucking me. 



Since it appears that I'm here for the duration, I haul myself into a seated

position and ponder my options. 



Decision number one. Music. I reach over and flip on the stereo. //Say you

stand by your man. Tell me something I don't understand. You said you love me

and that's a fact. Then you left me, said you felt trapped.// (2) The Clash.

The Only Band That Matters. 



Decision number two. Beer. And lots of it.



I climb to my feet and tug off the bloodstained T I've been wearing. I dig

through my drawer, looking for something that suits my mood, strike gold and

find my tattered Clash shirt. I pull it on and search for boots-- the combat

ones I'd gotten in Boston my last trip home. At the airport my dad had pursed

his lips in displeasure and looked at me with the contempt I'd come to

consider an endearment when he'd seen me decked out in army pants and with my

spiked, cheaply dyed black hair. He told me to take out the earring. 



My mother's concerned eyes and then silent acceptance had stung. What do I

have to do to get some sort of reaction out of her? When does numb become

dead? Because certainly my mother could play the part of a zombie in one of

those sci-fi flicks on at 4 AM. She hasn't had an emotional reaction to

anything-- not even her own divorce-- since my sister disappeared without a

trace eight years ago. 



Okay, for the record. It was my fault. Samantha vanished and I had been left

in charge. And so logically the blame lies with me. I know this as well as

they do. I have come to carry this burden like an ant struggling with a

morsel of food ten times its weight. I have very little memory of what

happened that night. The images are stretched and blurred, obfuscated by a

cloud of swirling smoke. All I know for certain is my world was flattened by

a giant foot from the sky. 



My parents have never forgiven me. I wear their disappointment like a hair

shirt. I almost enjoy it now. Throw old Fox over the rack one more time. Come

on, dad, pull that belt from its loops and see if you can finally beat the

truth out of me. See if that leather burning across my skin can jar a memory

out of this worthless skull of mine as real as the welts rising on my back.



I actually prefer his beatings to his cold indifference. Sometimes I even

provoke him. Incredibly sick, I know. I don't even want to think about it.

I'm considering shaving my head for the next visit. Fuck 'em if they can't

take a joke. 



I hit the street, headed for Bullingdon Arms. People move out of my way.

Good. When I'd arrived in Oxford, sporting jeans, a button-down shirt, and

the tan I'd earned from a summer spent working at a boat yard on the

Vineyard, I'd been stared at for my obvious Americaness. Is that even a word?

Who fuckin' cares, it is now. If people are going to gawk at me like some

sideshow freak, at least I'll give them a good reason. 



I push open the door to the pub and spot my crowd in the corner. Truth be

told, I'm the most normal looking one of the bunch. They're scholarship

students mostly, or outsiders like me. Regardless, the ones who would never

fit in with the titled lads from the public schools. 



Deciding to pursue my education in England had been easy. The further away I

could get from dad's oblique accusations and mom's silent resignation the

better. But arriving here, I was not welcomed into the fold as I hoped, a

long lost child returning to the land of my country's origins. I was more

like the hillbilly cousin. An outsider with questionable manners and

unrefined tastes. My New England accent and American views were at best

humored, at worst mocked. I wanted my tea with ice for God's sake. I was

destined to stand out. 



"Hey, Yank," Liam calls. "Hear what your bleeding president has done now?"

They all call me 'Yank' which is a hell of a lot better than Fox, I must

admit. What the fuck were my parents thinking anyway? I don't care if it's my

mother's maiden name. What sane person would name their kid that?



"No," I return, pulling a chair over and sitting down. Only Liam, Nigel, John

and Evan are in attendance this evening, and I'm glad. I'm not up for the lot

of them. "And he's not my 'bleeding' president. I wasn't even old enough to

vote for him." True enough, I'm just 19, after all.



"Well, buy me a fucking drink and I'll tell you about it anyway," Liam says,

summoning Mandy, the barmaid. "Two Guinness, if I can trouble you, love."



"No trouble 'tall," she says, running her hand down his cheek and hurrying

off. 



"Give me a smoke," I demand of Evan, who pulls a pack from the pocket of his

ratty sweater and tosses it to me. I take one and light it up. I nod him a

thanks and inhale deeply. I hate smoking, but I do it anyway. It's another

one of those concessions I make in order for life to go smoothly. "So, go

ahead. Tell me. What has crazy old Ronnie been up to now?"



"I heard something even more interesting," Nigel cuts in. 



"And what would that be?" John asks in the thick tones of Blackpool. It took

me three months to be able to understand a word he was saying.



"Rumor has it, Yank, that our Phoebe has given you the heave ho for a certain

Lord Thomas Browne," Nigel laughs. "Not surprised, the little whore."



I swallow hard and flick what's left of my cigarette at him. "Fuck off," I

sneer. Nigel's a shark, if he sees blood he goes into a feeding frenzy.  The

trick is never to show him a wound. I hate the bastard, but what can I say?

He's a friend.



Nigel smiles and takes a hit before he flicks the smoke back at me. "I'd

rather fuck her."



"Piss off, Nigel," Liam dives to my defense like he always does, and calls to

Mandy. "Add a round of Bushmills to that, would you, love?"



Liam is a Catholic from Northern Ireland. Belfast to be exact. He's

everything you're picturing right now--flaming red hair (well, it would be if

we hadn't dyed it black last week, the only problems is we sort of forgot

about his eyebrows) blue eyes, quick with a story and to laughter. He hates

England. He hates the upper-class. He hates the fucking Queen. Earning the

marks to get a scholarship to Britain's finest university is his way of

thumbing his nose at them all. He's the best friend I'm ever likely to have. 



Mandy arrives with our drinks. Liam passes them around and raises his glass

in a toast. "Here's to a sweetheart, a bottle, and a friend. The first

beautiful, the second full, the last ever faithful."



"Cheers," the call goes out and we slam back our drinks. The whiskey burns my

throat and I feel it making its way down to where I hope it will deaden my

heart.



Liam leans over and whispers, "I see a good Irish lass in your future. Maybe

one from America. She'll be good to ya, won't break your heart."



I smile and try to take a sip of my Guinness. It feels unaccountably thick. I

can't get it down. I don't know if I can pull this off. I don't know if I can

survive without Phoebe. My good hand tightens on my pint glass. I long to

feel the glass shatter again, to feel the jagged edges pulling skin from

skin, separating me from this life and her loss. The song playing on the

sound system seems perversely loud, clouding my brain. I can feel the words

echoing through me. Invading my bones... //Your confusion... my illusion,

Worn like a mask of self-hate, Confronts and then dies, Don't walk away.//

(3) I tighten my grip more. Phoebe, how could you? 



A hand gently pulls the glass from mine. "Did you really expect better from

that upper-class slag?" Liam whispers.



I stare at the table, I can't meet his eyes, I can't speak, so I nod, an

unnaturally jerky movement. I did. I expected more. I expected her to be my

reason. My future. My life. How can I explain that she was the first thing

since *that* night eight years ago that made me want to hope. Made me want to

bother.



"Ah shit," I hear Liam mumble, then he calls to Mandy again. "Love, better

bring the bleeding bottle."





	*	*	*



Eight shots later and the world is looking better. We're at some dance club

now, I think. There's a cover band on the stage playing an eclectic mix of

music-- ska, punk, new wave. I think they might suck, but I'm too pissed to

care. Some ska chick asks me to dance. I say yeah. Why the hell not. I'm

single. //Guess there's no use in hangin' 'round. Guess I'll get dressed and

do the town. I'll find a crowded avenue. Though it will seem empty without

you.// (4) 



"American?" she whispers close to my ear.



"Yeah, but it's not my fault, I was born that way," I reply, pulling her

closer. She's sorta cute. I am considering whether to kiss her when I

discover that I already am. Her mouth doesn't fit me the way Phoebe's does.

Her tongue against my teeth feels alien, like a Klingon invading a Vulcan

ship. I shove her away. Perhaps a little harder than I needed to and stumble

off laughing. 



A Vulcan. That's the answer. I'll become just like Mr. Fucking Spock. Curse

this human blood of mine. I find Liam and try to explain this epiphany to

him. He smiles and hands me a beer. Fucking lager, and in a cheap plastic cup

no less. Apparently glass is off limits to me for the duration. 



I am world-turned-on-its-ear drunk. People spin and images blur creating

surreal paintings in my mind's eye. I'm pretty sure I prefer this existence.

I cling to my inebriation like a small boy cowering in his father's overcoat.





I can do this. I don't need her, the slag. His fucking lordship is welcome to

her. I'm better off without her. I almost have myself convinced. One more

shot and she'll be forgotten, a lost chapter in the sorry book of my life. 



And then she walks in. Damn, damn, damn. The Ninth Earl of Bullshit is

hanging on her like a cheap coat of arms. She actually thinks she's going to

sleep her way into nobility. Ha, I guess she won't be the first, come to

think of it.



I know she's here to mess with my head, and hey, big surprise, I'm letting

her. "Fox," she whispers, sliding up next to me. 



"Mulder," I sigh, though I don't why I bother, she's always called me

whatever she wanted.



"I heard you cut your hand. Are you quite all right?" 



"Splendid," I sneer. 



"Good. I was concerned," she says, pulling my injured appendage into hers for

closer examination.



Her touch is too much. I jerk my hand, and my heart, away. "I'm sure you

were. But as you can see I'm just fine so you can go off and fuck your little

pommy boy with a clear conscience."



"Don't speak to her like that." 



The crisply spoken words are a slap in the face.



I snap my head up. When did he join our little pow wow? 



"Oh, quite right, m'lord. Whatever was I thinking?" And like an idiot I take

a swing at him. He decks me, but the last word is mine. I vomit on his shoes.

Who ever said life isn't fair?



	

	*	*	*



//All the times when we were close. I'll remember these things the most. I

see all my dreams come tumbling down. I can't be happy without you 'round.//

(5)  The words from a distant stereo pull me from my slumber.

Unconsciousness, actually, truth be told. Apparently my head has been

declared a construction zone in my absence and the crew is busy with a

jack-hammer on my skull. I run my hands through my hair in a futile attempt

to stop the pounding and then reach out for Phoebe, only to find cold sheets.





Panic returns in an enormous wave. I am five again, flipping end over end,

lost in a whirl of foam and seaweed, not knowing which way is up; sand

clawing at my limbs, my lone front tooth biting through my lower lip, salt

burning the open wound. Just when I am sure I am going to die my dad pulls me

out. He laughs and pats my back as I cough up water and cry on his shoulder. 



This time I drown.





	*	*	*



Some time later I am awakened by pounding on my door. I have been dreaming of

Samantha again. I can still hear the echo of her voice crying out in terror

rattling around in my mind. "Foooxxxxx." I slam my fist to my head. Why

didn't I do anything? Why can't I remember?



More pounding. I try to ignore it but Liam is having none of that. "Hey,

Yank," he calls. "Get your sorry bum out of bed and open the bloody door."



I stumble to my feet and fight the urge to vomit. I nearly lose the battle

when I open my portal to the outside world to see Liam standing there with a

bottle of whiskey and a batch of fish and chips.



"You look like shit," he observes as he pushes his way past me.



"Thanks," I reply, closing the door and retreating to the relative safety of

my bed. I pull my pillow over my head and wait for him to go away. No such

luck. I feel him settle himself down on the end of the bed. The springs groan

the despair that I don't have the energy to utter. 



"Didn't you take the aspirin I gave you last night?" he asks.



"I don't remember," I confess, my voice muffled by my feather fortress.



"I'm not surprised," Liam laughs. "Brilliant performance. Five stars from

this reporter. You should have seen me dragging your sorry arse up the stairs

here after you yaked on his lordship. Nice touch, that, did I mention?"



"I want to die," I moan.



"Hair of the dog, my friend," Liam says as I hear him twisting the cap off

the bottle. "My da always swore by that."



I lift the pillow to look at him, a truly Herculean effort. "Your dad is

dead."



"True," he replies, taking a sip and shoving the bottle toward me. "But you

know what he'd say, if he were here?"



I shake my head.



"Here's to fine wine, women, and song. And here's to workdays that aren't too

long. Here's to shoes that always fit.  And here's to you, you silly shit!" 



"That's lyrical. Really, I'm touched. Write that himself?"



Liam laughs and takes another quick drink. "Have to admit it's more poetic

than mazel tov," he retorts as the bottle is pushed into my hand. 



I bring it tentatively to my lips and recoil from the smell. "Jesus," I curse

softly.



"You're meant to drink it, not inhale it, Yank."



"And you'd know, wouldn't you?"



Liam sighs and grabs a chip, chewing and speaking through a mouthful. "You

Americans are all alike. Not a one can hold your liquor."



Well, now I have to drink, if only to protect my nation's honor. I bring the

bottle to my lips and swallow, fighting the gag reflex. The second shot goes

down entirely too easily. So does my half of the fish and chips.



"We're back in business," Liam declares, pounding me heartily on the back.



(continued in part 2)



Subject: NEW: Alone I Keep the Wolves at Bay (2/2) by ginef



Disclaimer in part 1





	*	* 	*



"You've got to drink her out of your system," Liam had assured me on the bus

ride to London. An interesting theory which I intend to test. I am blowing

off my abnormal psych class. The one that Phoebe is in. It's the first time

I've missed it. I don't give a fuck. I just hope she notices I'm missing and

worries. Christ, I'm pathetic.



I've spent a lot of time contemplating how I ended up in this sorry state.

How I happened to fall in love with Phoebe. The only satisfactory answer I've

come up with is that her brilliance is the steaming pot on the stove I just

had to touch to be certain I'd be burned. 



>From the very first moment I knew she was bad for me. Dangerous. A risk. But

like someone tempted by the kiss of heroin, I just had to find out. Had to

try it once. Then once more. Before I knew it I was hooked. A junkie without

the visible track marks.  



Sometimes, in moments of lucidity, I think she can't help the way she is.

Messing with the psyches of others defines her, empowers her. The only

problem is the subjects of her mental autopsies are still alive and are left

too shell-shocked to run.



As we make our way through the rush hour crowd on King's Road, I wonder if I

will ever truly escape. If I'll ever get her out of my system. Every woman on

the street is compared to her and comes up wanting. Too short. Too thin.

Wrong color hair. Wrong eyes. I search for her in every face. 



I play this same game looking for my sister. Any young girl with long brown

hair is an automatic contestant. I try to imagine how time would have changed

her. She'd be 16. Taller now, maybe having cut her hair. My dad would forever

being telling her to get off the phone, to stop giggling. She'd be fighting

off zits and hoping with all her might that the boy who sat next to her in

English class would ask her to the spring dance. In short, she'd be having

the normal teenage life I did nothing to preserve for her. Now, instead of

getting her driver's license, she's rotting in a shallow grave somewhere.

Cold and alone. 



Liam stops abruptly and swings open a door to a small pub. I follow him in.

Halfway through the door, he turns to me and starts singing, "I won't dance

in a club like this..." I join in, "All the girls are slags and the beer

tastes just like piss." (6) The bartender glares at us. Not too auspicious an

introduction, but there's stout on tap and the bus ride has left us parched,

so we saddle up to the bar. Amazing. This half-empty place could be any of a

thousand identical little holes scattered across Britain. Nothing worth

noting. I pull a pack of smokes from the pocket of my trench, light one and

slide them to Liam. 



"Two Guinness," Liam says, pulling himself up onto a stool and helping

himself to a cigarette.



"And two Bushmills. Doubles," I add. 



Liam turns to me and laughs. "That's me mate."



Red-rimmed eyes behind round spectacles consider us a long moment, taking in

the persona of indifference we've so carefully constructed. We stare back. A

challenge. Just when I think he's going to refuse to serve us, he shakes his

head in disgust and grabs two pint glasses. 



	

	*	*	*



An hour and a half later and sufficiently fortified, we spill out of the

King's Arms ready for anything. I feel like Sid Fucking Vicious, or since

things didn't turn out too well for him, perhaps Joe Strummer. 



We stumble down the street mocking the Sloane Rangers and looking for a place

to dance that looks promising. We rarely make the trip to London and the

clubs here come and go so fast it's hard to keep track. Liam stops without

warning and I plow into the back of him, forcing him to keep himself from

falling by grabbing hold of another random Di wanna-be. "Care to dance,

love?" he asks her, his voice a slur even to my ears.



"Sod off, you filthy pig," she says, shoving him away. 



"Ah, now that hurts, it does," Liam replies, hand to heart. "Coming from a

slag like you."



She moves away after throwing each of us a dirty look. We fall against the

wall laughing. "Why'd you stop?" I finally ask.



"Why did I stop?" Liam considers, taking in his surroundings, his eyes

stopping on a sign above my head. "Ah. Right. I think we need to mark this

momentous occasion."



"And what momentous occasion is that?" I ask, titling my head back to read

the sign. TATTOOS AND BODY PIERCING, it advertises in large red letters. Oh

no. This is trouble. 



"The end of your relationship with Phoebe," he gestures grandly and drags me

inside. 



	*	*	*



I find myself sitting in a chair, a purple-haired girl with countless holes

in her nose and ears and grimy fingernails looming over me, needle in hand.

//Plato the Greek or Rin Tin Tin. Who's more famous to the billion

millions?// (7) the boom box in the corner asks and I wonder.



"What's it going to be, love? Nose or ear?" she asks. I stare, mesmerized by

the thick black liner caking her eyes. 



"Uh," I mumble stupidly. "My nose is quite large enough. I don't think I need

to do anything more to draw attention to it." 



I glance over at Liam, who is busy examining his new nose ring in the mirror.

Truthfully the idea of having to take an earring in and out of my nose makes

me nauseous. And how to do you keep it clean? I shudder.



"Ear it is, then," Purple Hair is saying, fondling my left ear. "How about up

at the top? Through the cartilage?"



"Yeah." I'm starting to feel weak in the knees. Good job I'm sitting down.

Purple Hair is straddling one of my knees. Her short black skirt is riding

up, revealing shapely thighs encased in tattered red tights. She is leaning

over me, cleaning my ear with alcohol. I have a clear view down the front of

her tank top and my eyes are drawn to the tattoo on her left breast. I can't

quite make out what it is. Her breath is warm on my neck. She smells of musty

sweat and stale cigarettes. I can feel myself becoming aroused and shift

slightly, grateful for the baggy army pants I'm wearing, and hope she won't

notice. 



She takes the cigarette that has been dangling from her lips and places it in

mine. "Hold that for me, love?"



I nod lamely. She leans over me further to grab a pack of matches off the

table behind her. Her upper body is pressed firmly against mine. I can't

breathe. 



Mercifully she returns to her previous position, needle in one hand, lit

match in the other. "Won't hurt a bit," she lies, as she runs the needle

through the flame. 



An ash tumbles off the smoke in my mouth burning its way down the front of my

T-shirt. I don't brush it away. She moves her right hand to my ear. I can

feel a slight prick as she reaches for the moldy potato on the table and

slips it behind my ear. "Ready?" she asks, her voice raspy in my ear. 



I nod so slightly I fear she won't notice, but she must have because the

needle plunges through my ear in a blast of heat and agony. "Fuck!" I curse. 



"Okay, but later," she laughs as she wiggles the needle to make the hole

large enough to get the ring through. 



Five minutes later we are on the street headed for a club that Purple has

recommended. She has promised to meet us there in a few hours. I'm not sure

how I feel about that. Many drinks are now required so I can not ponder it at

all. 





	*	*	*



Purple Hair's mouth moves across my neck, licking off the salt she has placed

there, and then to the shot of tequila in her left hand. She drinks it

quickly and then pops a slice of lime between her teeth and bites. I am in

big trouble. I look around for Liam, but he discreetly disappeared when

Purple arrived some half an hour and four shots ago. I don't whether I want

to kiss him or kill him. "Let's dance," she whispers against my cheek. I'm a

bit reluctant to stand. Past experience has proven that tequila and gravity

are a combination not to be trifled with. Purple Hair, however, doesn't give

me much choice as she tugs on my hand. 



The ska band on the stage is covering The Beat, and not too shabbily, as we

join the throng. //For all my crimes of self defense. Cures you whisper make

no sense. Drift gently into mental illness.// (8)  Instead of jumping around

to the music like everyone else, Purple pulls me close, fitting our hips

together and then reaches up claiming my mouth with hers. She tastes of lime

and smoke. Her fingers attempt to thread through my hair, but the combination

of gel and egg whites prevents this and results in her yanking a chunk out by

the roots. I welcome the pain. I want her. Not because she is beautiful or I

am attracted to her, but because I can have her with no expectations. We are

anonymous. Faceless. Unreal. Nothing. I break the kiss and whisper, "Let's

get out of here."



She grabs my hand and leads me toward the back door, nodding to the bouncer

as we head out into the rain-soaked alley. We journey further into its dank

recesses, behind a rat infested dumpster. I push her against the wall and

kiss her brutally.  My hand shoves up her skirt even as she gropes for the

button of my pants.



As I lose myself in her body, I can feel all that I am being washed away as

surely as the vomit of a forgotten drunk by the pouring rain.





	*	*	*



"Samantha!" I sit bolt upright, unsure of whether I have screamed her name or

not. I could swear she was here. Calling for me. Begging, once again

unheeded, for my help. 



 I have no idea where the hell I am or who the girl sleeping next to me is.

Shit. It's Purple Hair. I have no memory of returning to her flat. But the

proof is in the pudding as they say. Who the hell says that anyway? I feel

unbearably dirty. Like I've cheated on Phoebe if you can believe that! So I

slide silently from the bed and gather up my clothes, still wet from the

night before, and dress quickly, without looking back. 



I gently tug the door closed and heave a sigh of relief. "Morning," the voice

behind me nearly finishes me off.



I turn to face the roommate with a sheepish grin. "Morning. Would you tell,

uh..." Fuck. I don't even know her name. 



"Jane," the roommate supplies helpfully.



"Right. Jane," I repeat. "Would you tell Jane I  had to... uh.. get to work."

And then I flee. I cannot get back to Oxford and the shower fast enough. 





	*	*	*



Two hours later I open the door to my room and slam it behind me. I close my

eyes and start to slide down the wall, too tired and hung over to battle the

demons that have been nipping at my heels since I awoke with a stranger, my

sister's name on my lips. What an incredibly sick fuck I am. 



"Fox?" My eyes fly open at the sound of Phoebe's voice. "Where have you been?

I've been worried about you." She moves toward me and I rise quickly trying

to escape her touch, but Phoebe is nothing if not persistent. 



"Don't." 



Phoebe's hand stops just short of touching my cheek, seemingly hurt by my

word. "No matter whom I'm with, Mulder, I'll never stop caring for you." When

I make no attempt to respond she continues, "You didn't show up for class

yesterday, I was concerned."



"Well, as you can see, I'm fine." I take a couple of steps backwards, until I

feel my calves touch the bed frame. I am trapped. "Please... just leave."



"Were you with someone?" she purrs, moving closer again. She seems slightly

amused. I know she can smell the sex on me. And like a cat she is moving in

to restake her claim. To mark her territory. A predatory smile creases her

lips as she slips her fingers into the waist band of my trousers, pulling me

closer to her. "Don't tell me you've forgotten me already." Her lips are so

close to mine I can feel their cold heat.



I want to push her away, to pummel her with my fists. To batter myself for

still wanting her, but my body betrays me by responding. We tumble on to the

bed, I tear at her clothes even as I fight back the tears burning at my eyes.





	*	*	*



As soon as she finishes with me, she climbs quickly from my bed. I can hear

the wool of her sweater sliding across her skin, the zipper of her skirt, but

I don't roll over to watch. "I have to meet Thomas for lunch," she says by

way of explanation. 



I don't respond, just hug my knees to my chest, trying to hide the nakedness

of my body and my soul. I am like one of those potato bugs, winding into

myself until I am nothing but a little ball. 



The latch catching behind her is the catalyst for the tears I've been

fighting. They flow uninhibited as sobs wrack me until I am numb. 



I drift in and out of dreams filled with my sister. She stands on a sun laced

hill, shadows crawl across the ground, leaves dance at her feet as the wind

plays with her hair. She calls my name. With each repetition I feel myself

weakening. My limbs are so heavy I can barely move. For every step I take I

seem to lose two. 



I don't care. Doesn't matter. Nothing does.



Day drains into night. Life into death.





	*	*	*



Distant knocking. Insistent pounding. Ignore it. Go away. 



Click. Creak. Footsteps. No! 



"Samantha!" Her name is torn from my throat. 



"Yank, wake up," I can hear the trepidation in Liam's voice, but it seems far

away, of no concern to me. "Jesus, come on. Please." This time he grips me by

the shoulder and shakes. 



I can feel myself going back, against my will. Why can't he just go away?

Leave me be. The late morning sun creeping through the window assaults the

tiny slits of my eyes. I squeeze them tighter, only to be shaken again.

"Shit. What?" my voice sounds raw and scratchy even to my own ears.



"Christ, Yank, I've been looking for you for two days. Two fucking days!

Where the hell have you been?" Liam asks, opening the window to let in some

air. Its biting freshness serves to clear some of the fog coiling in my mind.



"Here." I sit up unsteadily and cradle my head in my hands.



Liam is fumbling with my tape player, seems the silence is making him nervous

like an encounter with a crazy next door neighbor. Ironically, I *am* the

crazy next door neighbor. He finally locates the play button and clicks it

on. The tortured strains of Joy Division fill the room. //Do you cry out in

your sleep? All my failings expose? Get a taste in my mouth, as desperation

takes hold.// (9) He snaps it off. "Right, then. Perhaps something a little

lighter."



I can't fight the grin pulling at my lips. "Like who? The fucking Go Go's?"



"What fun would that lot be? Their are lips are sealed, I've heard," he

replies, digging through my tapes and lighting a cigarette at the same time. 



I laugh shortly and it hurts my head. He tosses the pack to me. I help myself

to one. The smoke burns my throat, serving to remind me it's been forty-eight

hours since I've had any water. Was I really out of it that long?



Liam makes a satisfied noise indicating that he's found a tape. "You bastard,

I've been looking for this for a week," he says as he fires it up. U2. Boy.

I'm not surprised. He's enamored of them. They're young, Irish and pissed off

too. 



I climb slowly to my feet, pulling the sheet around my waist as I make my way

to the sink in the corner. I turn on the tap and bring handful after handful

of water to my parched lips. The face that stares back at me in the mirror,

hair askew, cigarette hanging precariously from his lips, is not mine. He is

a stranger with pasty skin and red swollen eyes. I don't want to know him.



I retreat to the safety of my bed. "How'd you get in?" I ask and reach over

to grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Liam turns his attention back to my

tapes. I dress quickly. 



He clucks. "Asshole. This one's mine too." 



He is avoiding the question. "How?" I repeat.



"Got your key off Phoebe," he says, pulling another tape. "Ack, and this one

as well."



"That must have been a touching moment." Liam cannot stand Phoebe. She

strives to be everything that he despises. He must have been desperate to go

to her for anything. 



He shrugs. "You wouldn't answer your door. Couldn't leave you in here to your

own devices forever, now could I?" 



"Give you a bad time?"



He sits down heavily on the end of my bed. "This part's brilliant, isn't it?"

he says, playing air drums for a moment. "Larry Mullen is a bleeding genius,

he is." He looks at me. I'm waiting. He sighs. "Offered me a ride. The usual.

Told her I'd rather shag the Queen Mother." 



I laugh, even as I feel her tear off another chunk of my heart. The breakfast

of champions. Propositioning my friends is one of her best events. She's a

fucking gold medalist. I drop my head into my hands and cackle maniacally. 



I can feel Liam's eyes on me. Measuring. As my hysteria dies down he asks,

"Who's Samantha?"



I stop mid-guffaw, but keep my head down, unable to meet his gaze. "What?"



"Who is Samantha?" he swallows hard, realizing too late that he's crossed

into a restricted area. He hurries on, nervous, I can tell by the thickening

of his brogue. "You were calling for her when I came in, weren't you? Just

curious is all. Never heard you mention her. Look, never you mind..."



"My sister," I murmur. 



"..None of my bleeding--" He stops and is silent. 



I lift my head. "She was my sister."



"Jesus, Joseph and Mary," he says and reaches into the pocket of his coat and

pulls out a mickey of whiskey. "Sorry, man." 



I accept the bottle, take a shot and hand it back. The silence hangs thick.

Palpable. I have told no one here about Samantha. Not even Phoebe, to whom I

confessed even my fear of fire. In England I am not *the* tragic Fox Mulder.

Stared at, pitied and whispered about. The one who either watched his sister

be taken and did nothing or, as some speculate, who may even have killed her

himself. 



I stand and go to the closet, yanking my suitcase off the shelf. From inside

the lining I remove a well-worn photograph. We are at the beach. I have my

arm slung protectively around her, for all the good it did her. I study it

for the ten millionth time before I hand it over to Liam.



"How old?" he asks as he examines it. 



"Eight." I sit down, pull my knees up to my chest and fumble for another

cigarette. "I was twelve." I fill my lungs with smoke. It fails to relax me.

"I... I had been left in charge. It was my fault."



Liam takes a long moment before asking the inevitable question. "What

happened to her?"



I stare out the window. Typical late morning gloom has moved in. "I don't

know. She was taken. I don't know who... where. My memory..." I pause and

swallow hard. "I have no memory of it."



"Right, Yank, you remember *everything*." 



"Not..." I can't seem to find the words to explain the gaping hole in my

otherwise perfect memory. "...that night."



I look back and see Liam considering me with sad eyes. "Before you assume all

the blame," he stops and takes a pull off the bottle before handing it to me

again, "Don't you think that you better try to find out?"



"I...." The word hangs dead in the air as I struggle for more to accompany

it. How could I possibly discover what happened? Even the fucking FBI was

stumped. I stare down at the bottle in my hand. It offers me no answers. No

escape. "I'm hungry," I say, somewhat surprised that it's true. "Want to go

to the St Giles?" 



"Yeah," Liam replies, climbing to his feet. 



"Better hurry," I say as I pull on my boots, "I need to shower and study

before my first lecture."



	*	*	*



Two hours later, I slide into my seat in abnormal psych just as don Fowler is

about to begin. "Nice of you to join us today, Mr. Mulder," he says. "I hope

we haven't cut into your busy social schedule."



I say nothing. He's not expecting me to. I can feel Phoebe's eyes boring into

me, but I ignore her. She reaches over to touch my arm, but I shift quickly,

thwarting her effort. Breakfast and a shower have left me feeling stronger,

but not invincible. I force myself to turn my attention to the lecture.



"I am honored to introduce you to our guest speaker today." Fowler gestures

to a gnomish looking man seated off to the side. I study him intently. The

small deep set eyes. The upturned nose. He exudes an almost arrogant sense of

self-assurance. In fact, he seems slightly bored, like perhaps this is a

waste of his time. He purses his lips as Fowler continues singing his

praises. "Dr. William Patterson has been a special agent with the Federal

Bureau of Investigation in the United States for over five years. He holds a

PhD in psychology from Harvard University. Currently, he is attached to the

Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI and is a one of the world's foremost

experts in the profiling of the criminal mind, specifically that of the

serial killer. Dr. Patterson..."



"Thank you," the man says, pushing his glasses into place as he takes his

feet. He clears his throat before speaking again. "If you want to know an

artist, you have to look at his art..."



THE END



Any and all comments are welcome. Please write me at ginef@aol.com 



TIMELINE INCONSISTENCY:

I know. I know. In the official guide it says Mulder didn't arrive in Oxford

until 1983. I figure the latest he graduated high school was 1980. What was

he doing for three years? Travelling? Serving up chili fries at the local Gas

and Sip? I was unable to find a satisfactory answer, so in my little universe

he went to England in 1981. 



The lyrics scattered throughout this story are borrowed lovingly and without

permission from some of the greatest bands to ever to grace the planet. The

title of this story is also borrowed from the lyrics of The Clash song "Train

in Vain." My other transgressions are as follows:



(1)  "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division

(2)  "Train in Vain" by The Clash

(3)  "Atmosphere" by Joy Division

(4)  "Can't Get Used To Losing You" by The Beat (or The English Beat if you

live in the US)

(5)  "Train in Vain" by The Clash

(6)  "Nite Club" by The Specials

(7)  "The Magnificent Seven" by The Clash

(8)  "Mirror In The Bathroom" by The Beat

(9)  "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division