She’d rather have the attention of the beau than the clown, but he’s watching the table, intent on the game. Her shot is terrible, hit rather than pushed, running everywhere on the table but on target, coming to rest against one of the striped balls, qualifying the shot by the barest of margins. She laughs as if failing at this is tickling her, and looks at her besotted consort with a coyly innocent look, knowing he’ll happily bear the burden of her incompetence to spend time with her. Neither one of them is here for this game – they’re playing games of their own. The fourth player stands up and steps forward. She’s neither as tall nor as graceful as the blonde. At about 162 centimetres, with reddish-brown hair and dark, burning eyes, she’s thin to the point of emaciation, the kind of thinness that’s deliberate and hard-won, not the result of natural coltishness. She’s all angles, and her long face lies along her left arm whenever she shoots. She’s not as pretty as her friend, and. Andy's heart raced, the short hairs on the back of his neck rose and he quivered with fear as he looked up to see the veiled figure of a woman, dressed in a white, shapeless shroud standing above him. "Who the fuck are you," he asked. "My name, Sir, is Mary. Mary Smith, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance." "N..no..." Andy stammered, looking at the grave stone, "You're fucking dead!" "No Sir," she contradicted him, "I am awake, till one hour past midnight." Andy's instinct was to run but the woman extended her cold hand, touching his arm, "Stay with me, Sir." Recoiling from her touch, Andy backed away, until the cold granite of her memorial prevented further retreat and reminded him of the inscription. "It says hear that you' re a murderer," he said nervously. "Yes Sir," the woman admitted, "But they wrongly accused me Sir. They wronged poor Mary most terribly Sir." "You're telling me you didn't do it," Andy said, becoming strangely accustomed to speaking to a woman who had.
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