It was dark and stiflingly hot crouching in the bedroom cupboard, yet David 's bowels froze in terror — he was not ready to die.

Perspiration trickled into his eyes. He squeezed them shut, a twitch of his head and neck all the movement he permitted himself to try to throw off the stinging beads of sweat. He must not make a sound or he risked discovery.

Warmth...and light. David smiled broadly and took a deep breath. Eyes still closed he snuggled deeper into the feather bed, floating in its almost weightless cocoon. There's nothing more contentment-making than waking when you wake, and feeling the sunlight through the curtains, and knowing it's a beautiful day. And you're safe...you're almost certainly safe, after years of terror.

Finally, David stretched in every bone and muscle, until he thought he'd snap, and it felt good. He lay there for a bit longer, enjoying the luxury of feeling secure and having nothing he had to do - not having nothing to do, nothing to look forward to - just nothing pressing, nothing to drive him any faster than he wanted to go. He thought about the painting he was working on, visualizing what he wanted it to say and hoping the author, whose book cover it would grace, had the same vision.

It felt wonderful to have that rush of inspiration again, to be able to look forward to working at what he loved. Finally, his bladder got him moving. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stretched once more before getting up to move to the lavatory. Shuffling, and swinging his feet as he walked, he made a little skipping movement and continued with a jaunty step. When he saw himself in the mirror over the basin, he wasn't surprised to see a grin on his face. David threw back his head and laughed. God, it felt good to be alive and, very nearly, care free.

As he bathed he began to sketch out his day. He'd collect the post, and have a leisurely breakfast, perhaps on the verandah if the morning was as mild as it promised to be. Perhaps a bit of a read through the Times, then on to his labours.

Labours of love. He sighed from deep down inside. It had been such a long time since he'd painted, even been able to contemplate putting brush to canvas. With that thought, he detoured into his studio to open the drapes that covered the French doors to the garden and to have a look at his work-in-progress. Back to work, he thought, with his first new canvas since...he shook his head and a frown flitted across his face, then was gone again.

With the glow beginning to fade, he realized how icy the floors were beneath his bare feet, so he contented himself with just pulling back the curtains before returning to his bedroom. After that he was more resolute, more focused - determinedly cheerful rather than blissfully content. He put on old corduroy trousers and a baggy, stretched out jersey, planning for his painting later.

The phone rang as he was thinking about collecting the post. It was early post day, and he could read it with his breakfast. He hurried into the sitting room to catch the call before the answering machine got it.

"Hullo?" His voice was hesitant. It still made him nervous to answer the phone, one fear he hadn't managed to put a dent in.

"Hullo, David. It's Carl."

"Carl!" he said with real pleasure. He sat back against the arm of an easy chair. "It's good to hear from you."

"Thanks. So how is it going down there?" He sounded tentative, as though wary of a too honest response. Carl was one of the authors David had created book covers for, and they'd become great friends during the project.

"Fine. Wonderful, in fact." There was no mistaking the happiness in his tone.

"Good. Good." Carl felt relieved at how relaxed his friend sounded. "I was calling to see if you felt like coming up for a visit. We're having a few old friends for the first weekend of the new year."

David started to give an automatic refusal, then he thought, Why should I refuse? I'm finally free, and I'd really like to go. "I'd love to, Carl. It's been too long."

"Right then, I'll email you the details. Glad you're feeling so much better. You know we all worry about you." Gruffly embarrassed by the sentiment, both men were silent momentarily.

"Thanks. I do appreciate your kind thoughts, but things are so much better now. Just this morning I was realizing how normal my life is once again. God, it's good not to be afraid."

They exchanged their goodbyes and Carl reiterated his promise to send the details for the weekend houseparty before they rang off. Something to look forward to. David whistled as he pulled a short coat out of his bedroom cupboard. It may be a sunny day for December, but it was still December, he reminded himself. He drew it on as he started for the front door, stopping at the hall tree to grab a black, Special Forces beret from one of its hooks. He tugged in on, checking his reflection to see that the beret was straight and covered his rapidly expanding bald spot.

He didn't lock the door behind him, just walked down the long drive to the post box. Looking up at the sunny sky, he realized he hadn't needed the coat. He was just sorting through his post when old Mrs. Meriwether jolted past, cane flying as she hurried to keep her feet under her. Her old dog must be expecting a treat when he reached home, the way he was plunging determinedly ahead.

They greeted each other, the old lady with a dignified nod, cheeks blazing with exertion, and David with a cordial wave of his hand. He turned back up the drive, feeling a return of contentment. There was a bird singing in the tree at the corner of his garden, the crocus and snowbells naturalized in the lawn were beginning to bloom. The sky was so blue...fluffy white clouds...he smiled and inhaled deeply of the unseasonably gentle air...yes, definitely breakfast on the verandah.

David was barely through the door when he thought he heard a sound inside. Head cocked, slowly, quietly closing the door behind him, he listened for a repetition. Then he smelt it. It was pure, primitive terror that sent him scurrying to cower in his bedroom cupboard before he'd consciously made the connection. He wanted to weep; he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

It was her scent — Daphne, the same as her name. God! He'd had that smell thrust at him from crowds, sent to him in mails, wrapped around his neck in a silken noose. Now it grabbed him by the throat, squeezing like that noose so he could scarcely draw breath. He'd been certain he'd finally eluded her, had felt so safe here in Brighton, was painting again. Now she was here, and he'd have to leave it all behind. If he lived out this day, that is.

His harsh breathing and the thunderous pounding of his blood nearly deafened him, yet he strained to hear through the louvred vent at the top of the door, listening for any sound of movement. Then he heard her moving about in his studio. She set something solid down on a wooden surface; he heard the clunk.

A bomb! That was his first thought. One of her threats had been to blow him to "kingdom come," like the explosion depicted in his painting of that name. David had been an acclaimed painter of illustrations and cover art for fantasy books and role playing games.

Much of his work had been grisly, eerie, and even violent. The woman, Daphne, had fed on all that and believed that David was like his subject matter - dark and dangerous and violent, too. Appalled by the really kinky and deranged correspondence she sent him, David hadn't known what to do to discourage her.

Ignoring her didn't work. Writing back to politely state that he wasn't into that sort of thing and would she please stop pursuing him hadn't worked, far from it. The woman had turned up the heat until he had to admit he was being stalked, and by a raving psychotic.

Horrid little mementos were left on his doorstep; his girlfriend was attacked leaving his home one evening. It escalated all the way up to the booby traps the woman set for him, which could have caused him serious injury, even killed him, if he hadn't been colossally fortunate.

The police could do nothing if they couldn't tie Daphne to the attacks. Since David had never seen her face, and her return addresses were all accommodation shops, there was no way even to identify her. David finally accepted he'd have to go into hiding when she'd nearly killed him in a crowded tube station.

One moment he'd been at the rear of a crowd of commuters, the next he was being yanked back into a dark corner, unable to call for help because of the silken rope she was slowly but surely garroting him with. He was saved by a drugged out zombie who took exception to the struggling pair invading what he considered his patch.

Lights were popping in David's head by the time the pressure around his neck was suddenly released. He'd collapsed to his hands and knees on the filthy pavement, only to be kicked and spat upon by his irate but unknowing rescuer.

Now, David was tempted to bolt from his hiding place in the hopes of outrunning the timer...if it was a bomb...but he was too terrified to move. Breath held, he waited for whatever would come next. The heat in the cupboard felt like a steel band tightening around his head, until he remembered the slightly-too-snug wool beret he still wore. With a grimace, he slowly inched a hand to his forehead to tip the cap up and relieve the pressure.

The sound of a finger run across the strings of an untuned guitar was so unexpected that David's whole body jerked. His new composition included a guitar, a silent observer next to the body of the dead musician who'd made it sing and scream and wail with musical passion. David had planned to paint a fantastic half-man, half-lobster looming over the body, pincers extended, ready to rend and tear. The guitar was merely intended to be a prop; now he feared it would be a witness to his, David's, demise, as well.

His involuntary spasm had sent the cupboard door flying open to bang against the adjacent wall and rebound with a jolt against a hastily outthrust hand. He gulped in the cooler, fresher air of the bedroom, crouching immobile, hoping, ridiculously, that the woman would not have heard the racket.

"Mr. Stryker? Is that you?" Her voice carried faintly down the passage from his studio. Why is she toying with me like this? Why doesn't she just kill me and be done with it? The heavy sense of helplessness that pressed against him had a poignant familiarity. He knew what it was to be without hope. But some sane piece of his mind registered that the voice he'd heard didn't sound like her voice, not like the one who'd whispered all those grisly threats down the phone lines at him. David remained frozen, staring out the open cupboard door, head cocked, breath held, waiting for some sign to tell him whether he was safe or was about to meet his maker.

Light footsteps started hesitantly down the corridor. "Mr. Stryker, it's Rowena Savage from next door..." Her voice trailed off, then she called again, "Mr. Stryker?"

His neighbour? He heard her at the bedroom door. Feeling foolish, now, David stepped down to the floor, wincing at the pain in his knees and back as he finally straightened from his crouched position. Torn between feeling foolish and apprehension, he told himself he'd pretend he'd been searching for something in the recesses of the cupboard, something that had necessitated his crawling inside. Would that convince anyone or would she think he was mad?

But anyone could say they lived next door. The idea brought him up short. He'd never seen his neighbor close to...the image of his crazed stalker, silenced automatic in hand, standing there waiting patiently for him to step into the open flashed through his mind. He stood a moment, hidden behind the open cupboard door, gathering his courage.

Once his resolution was taken, however, he fairly leapt from concealment. The woman gasped and stepped back a pace, one hand raised defensively. The hazy light through his curtained windows showed him a slender woman in a longish skirt and lifeless sweater, dull blonde hair straggling from a fastening at the back of her head — she didn't look like a stalker — whatever one should look like.

David glimpsed himself in his vanity mirror. Still in his coat, beret askew, shoulder length hair matted with sweat and eyes staring wildly - no wonder she looked afraid of him. He reached to pull off his hat, remembered the bald spot he was so sensitive of, then vainly shoved and tugged it back into place.

"Sorry. Sorry." He took off his coat and turned to hang it in the cupboard. "I was looking for my keys, seem to have fallen out of my pocket." Then he laughed a bit hysterically.

He started to grab at his hat again, withdrew his hand again. "I must look a fright."

A brief stretch of his face passed for a smile as he gestured for her to precede him back down the corridor. The woman's quickly stifled grin and brief flicker of her eyes up to his cap were her only acknowledgments of his obvious embarrassment.

At the door to his studio, she explained, "I wouldn't have come in, but your doors were ajar." She gestured toward the partially open French doors, then shot him a timid smile. "I hope you don't mind my barging in unannounced, like this."

"No, no, quite all right," but he was almost sure he hadn't opened the doors when he'd been in there earlier.

"I'm sorry to intrude, but I've just been cutting back my Daphne, and there was so much," she explained. David started at the name, Daphne; she didn't seem to notice.

"I couldn't bear to just throw it away, so I put some in water for you."

She had really lovely blue eyes. He gave himself a mental nudge. "Not at all, not at all. I mean," he paused to gather his thoughts, "lovely flowers, wonderful scent." He smiled, turning to see the arrangement she had placed on a low table near his lounge - massed branches in a copper jug. Ah, that was the thud he'd heard. He smiled to himself.

"Yes, they're my favorites," her cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm. "So many blooms and scents in spring and summer, but for winter scent, you can't do better than Daphne," she informed him earnestly.

He nodded enthusiastically, rubbed his hands together, grinning in pleasure. "Shall I just make us some tea, then?"

"Oh, that would be lovely." Rowena nodded, fiddling a bit nervously with the hem of her sweater. "This is such a treat." She paused, then rushed ahead, "I love your paintings, so colourful. I'm a big fan of yours."

David paused in the doorway; her timidity was charming. "Thank you, that's very flattering."

She nodded, just a little bob of her head as he turned to go.

In the kitchen, David hummed to himself as he concentrated on his preparations. The kettle was on the fire, and he dug a package of Sainsbury's biscuits from the back of a shelf, wishing he had something more palatable. He shook his head at his panic of a few moments earlier, and had to smile at how silly he'd been. But the placidity and routine of tea preparation brought him back down to earth. He'd been a right prat to jump to conclusions that way; he could almost scoff at his fright now.

He was just pouring boiling water over the tea leaves in his old Brown Betty when he heard Rowena in the doorway. "This will just be a moment," he said over his shoulder.

She spoke as he turned to pick up the plate of biscuits he'd set out on the countertop. "I've loved Daphne all my life. I even used to call myself 'Daphne.'"

The plate tilted in his hand, knocking against the tile counter, its contents sliding off before he could right it. Don't be ridiculous! That's just a coincidence, he told himself. David turned toward the counter to hide his agitation, fumbling to put the biscuits back on the plate. He saw how his hands trembled and threw a nervous glance over his shoulder.

She stood there smiling at him. He turned back to the counter. Or was that a smirk?