She wakes up with an involuntary twitch, to the dim light falling from a barred window - no more than a barred hole in the wall. A cramped cellar-like space, a naked concrete floor, an air matress she is curled up onto with a blanket. The silhouette of the man sitting next to her left is all dark, unmoving, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face sunk into the popped-up collar of a cloak coat. It is the indefinite time between very late in the night and very early in the morning, and you still can choose. She blinks; the reality comes crashing down on her. The escape, breathless running, unlit streets, the anonymous hired van they abandon blocks away from their current hiding place. The last thing she remembers before crashing down into the blackhole of sleep, is relief; relief and cold.

'You're awake.' It is a constatation. He still doesn't move.

'Cold.' It is also a constatation. She crawls on her hands and knees towards the man in an expensive wool coat.

''Move a bit. Don't make noise. I've only got the blanket I gave you.'

'No, you have also got this.' She reaches for the perked up lapels and the scarf, ignoring his startled look.

''Don't be an idiot,' she hisses. 'Animals flock together when it's cold. Basics of survival. It saves energy. It is noiseless.'

She isn't sure if it is her last argument that persuades him. Whatever it is, the long, gloved fingers are undoing the row of the firmly sitting buttons. He jeers, in one last attempt of resistance: 'You count yourself to animals?'

'I don't. I am one. Don't pretend you aren't one.' She doesn't listen to his scoffing, crouches between his long legs, plies her body sidelong to his, shoves her cold-numb hands somewhere near his armpit, nestles her knees in the juncture between his leg and his hip. He doesn't reciprocate. When she's installed, he pulls the of the coat around her - them - instrumentally, solely to prevent the warmth loss, and he adjusts his sitting position to accomodate the additional weight. His body feels angular, bony and firm. The coat fabric exudes a distinctive mixture of an expensive eau de cologne, cigarettes and his specific body odour. She remembers it very well.

She writhes closer to him, but is not getting warmer, as if he's subconsciously denying her his warmth, as if his body has now joined his mind in the effort to turn her presence into abstraction. She burries her face under his chin; he lets his head fall back against the wall. She asks:

'How long are we staying here?'

'The next 24 hours. We will stay in during the day. And it will get warmer. The temperature will raise considerably within the next few hours. We will leave in the evening, take another car I've hired and embark on a boat at Port Qasim. I've got an US pasport for you, a driving licence and a bank card with 2000 USD, for a start.

'Luggage? I cannot be travelling without luggage?'

'In the car. A full wardrobe, includes McQueen, Azaguri, Janet Reger. Louboutin.'

'My favorites.'

He doesn't answer.

'You have thought of every detail.' Again, it is a constatation.

'Yes, I have.'

'And here I am. Alive.'

'Yes, you are.' He sounds firm and emotionless.

'Why?' she asks, puffing her warm breath on her still cold fingers. There is merely curiosity in her voice.

'Because I could.' He says readily. He knows what she means. Why he did it. It is the question he must have anticipated.

She speaks into the hollow of his throat.

'And what if you couldn't?' This is probably not what he expects her to ask.

'Then...' his cool voice rasps into the top of her head. 'Then you would not be here. But it is highly improbable.'

With her nose, she rubs circles onto his adam's apple, and he swallows. 'But would have you regretted that?'

'I would have avenged you.' His answer is quick, automatic. He probably feels her smiling into his shoulder; her hand rises to cup the side of his neck. He doesn't see her eyes.

They remain silent.

'I was thirteen.' She speaks up, it's unexpected, and he shivers. 'I was thirteen, and he was my stepfather.' For the first time, his body reacts, and it is a negative reaction. His muscles tense. 'I was his good girl.' Her voice is a blood-chilling purr. 'And it was the last time I was one. I took revenge on him. Don't ask.' He isn't going to. He watches her intently, frowns.

'And I did it over and over again. I've avenged myself in every possible way. Too many times and on too many people, if you ask me.'

He isn't going to.

'I thought it was too late for me...'

'I was just ready to die.'

She means to say it cooly, matter-of-factly. But out of a sudden, there is just too little distance between them. It is just as if she cannot breathe and gasps for air with her mouth open. Instinctively, he grabs her by the small of her neck, and holds her very firmly, something he would do for a drowning person. She whimpers and there come tears, tears and words, barely audible, barely articulate. Not letting go of her, he pulls her down with him onto the matress, wraps her into his coat whispering irrevocable, indeletable things into her cold, messy hair.

The morning is being born, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. There is sun in the room, as much - or as little - as a barred cellar window will let through. They will never have more.

She props herself up on an elbow and examines his face. She hasn't had the opportunity yet. His features are thinner, the skin paler, the cheekbones more pronounced than she remembers. There are dark shadows under his eyes. And a shadow in his eyes: it's her. It will never go away.

He is watching her too, his crooked arm under his temple. The corner of his mouth curls up.

'It is warm now. You don't need me any longer.'

'I do.' She has a raw morning voice.

It's an escape, breathless running, the previous lives abandoned far away from the hiding place, at the far end of the world.

Noicelessly, she pulls her black robe over her head, her blouse and pants - obviously not hers - and drops onto the matress. In her plain, flimsy underwear, she is thinner and more nude than ever. She looks at him expectantly; she doesn't help him undressing. They'd be tearing and ruining things.

They are not tender. They have never been, and this will not change now. He takes a bitter pleasure in pinning her immovable onto the matress, with her hair wrapped over his fist. She will wrestle herself onto the top of him, she will have all of him, and she will have no mercy. But now, he holds her tight; he leaves marks on her hips and thighs; when he enters her, pressing her hard into the matress, she sinks her teeth into his shoulder. He won't feel it until an eternity later, when they both collapse, ultimately spent in each other.

They will have no other choice as to rise again and leave into the night together.