© 1995 Linda Moore

I didn't know what I wanted any more. I'd come here from my home in the north some six months previously, a student chasing a liaison that had seemed solid back then, but once the trap of employment closed over me, I'd started to change. Or maybe she had. I wasn't sure any more. It was finished; there was still a part of me that said it shouldn't be, but after last night I was too worn out to care.

It was just that I didn't have much idea what to do. I was here in a strange town, where we'd been visiting one of her friends, and the blazing row that had gone on through the night had thrown me out into limbo.

It was peaceful in the street; the one-way system was deserted, the cobbles underfoot might well have been part of another age. Here, the street was narrow, the old and sagging buildings almost touching above, their wood as tired as I was. At ground level it was all modern - bookshops, clothes shops, pizza places, something for the tourists: but if you looked up you could see what had been, once upon a time. A faint mist shrouded it all and gave it an air of peace, of other-worldliness.

I wandered at will, slowly, thoughtfully. I didn't know what hurt most: losing her, losing my way, or my head. Past the church, through the yard with graves that had cracked a long time ago; past the river and its little bridge, where the ducks sleepily floated. My feet took me to the market which was just setting up for the day. I had no idea what the time was; my watch was back there. I might feel brave enough to fetch it some day, but it wasn't that expensive. Best, perhaps, to make a clean break.

Through the mist the sounds now intruded: the clank of steel poles, chatter, the noise as men blew on their hands to warm them against the cold. The colours seemed subdued in this half-light; all greys and dull greens and black. I had to fight the odd sensation that the whole place was made of mist. The stall-holders ignored me completely as I went through, lost deep in myself.

And then suddenly I saw her, and I knew exactly what I needed. I needed sex, pure physical sex with no strings attached, sex I could pay for, sex that I didn't need to feel guilt about or have to talk to in the morning. Sex for forgetting.

She was pale like the dawn, with light blue eyes and almost white hair: a real moonchild. She was leaning against one of the outer frames which had not yet been occupied, lighting up a cigarette as if it were the only warm thing she possessed. She was slender, perhaps too much so; her blouse was white and low cut, her tight mini-skirt clinging to thighs without a touch of fat, her body arranged at a conveniently beckoning angle. As I stared, she moved one leg, drawing a delicate circle in the dust with a tiny little foot; and she fixed me with a smile that told me that I could have whatever I wanted.

"My name is Eleanor," she whispered, "and I have a flat not far from here. You can see the market from up there." Her eyes became distant, as if she saw into another place.

I took her arm and she led me through the market. The stall keepers ignored her, and I noticed that some of them actually averted their eyes. "Oh, don't worry about them," she added, a slow and uncaring smile touching her lips. "I've had most of them on one occasion or the other, and I guess they find it embarrassing. The tales I could tell..."

"Don't," I said. There was a sadness about her that attracted me, as if her profession had damaged her soul, and I wondered if I could warm her up. Or if she could warm me, for that matter.

Her flat overlooked the market, just as she had said. As she undressed, I peeped down. Through the open window I could hear the increasing bustle as the sun rose and tinted it all yellow. On the early morning breeze I smelt the aromas and stinks: fish and veg, hot men and hopeful tramps, some I couldn't recognise and some I could. The sunlight seemed to soak through the place and make it alive, but up here it was still cold and misty. Her room was painted white and her bedding was pale; she had a double bed that had seen better days.

As I turned away and began my exploration of her naked and white body, the sounds of the market drifted up lazily and enfolded us.

I lay in her arms afterwards, strangely content, and she whispered quiet things into my ear. Somehow she had tuned herself into me, making me feel at ease, knowing that it all hurt and sometimes this was the only way of forgetting.

In her job, I'm sure, the hurting was a way of life. Or else she had seen it all before, far too many times, and had said this all before, so many times that it sounded natural. But that isn't what I wanted to believe. Right there, sharing that patch of warmth, Eleanor and I had souls that matched. Oh, and how I needed that...

There was the thunder of footsteps, and she broke away from me abruptly, shattering the peace that had built up around us. "Dress yourself!" she commanded, her pale eyes wild, and I had only the time to put on my underpants and T-shirt before the man burst in upon us, his red face burning with fury.

"How many more?" he bellowed, staring at me in loathing. "How many are there left in that damn market before you've done them all?"

"As many as I can get, you bastard," she hissed as he reached out for her and dragged her out of the door. I could hear them yelling at each other outside and knew, all of a sudden, why she looked so sad.

No sooner had I realised this, when there came the unmistakable sound of gun shots. One. Two. And the echoes of the market stopped abruptly.

I began to back away towards the window but it was too late. Looking down, I could not imagine jumping in any case; everything looked too far away, too painful. I had my back to the market when he came in and shot me as well.

I woke up with my trousers down and a pain in my chest, but when I took a look there was nothing but a bruise. There was a foul taste in my mouth, the bitterness of old alcohol, and all the memories came flooding back as I sat up, stiff and sore.

I was lying in the middle of a derelict flat, its white paint peeling, its windows boarded up. I peered through a chink and saw the empty market place - and empty was the right word. It was just a square, with steps edging it on two sides: gone were the permanent frames for the stalls, and gone was any sign that a market had ever been held there.

Then I remembered being shot, and blamed it all on the beer and her.

I never went back to my girlfriend, and in the end I never really wanted to. I'd had the best sex dream of my life, and after that began to feel the effects of calm on my life for the first time in many months. I took the moonchild with me wherever I went, firmly entrapped in my heart.

And besides, when I told one of my mates about it, one of the ones who'd been helping me get over my ex, he sort of went quiet on me. "Well?" I asked, waiting for the tale.

"Oh, nothing. It's just there hasn't been a market there for ten years now. You must've had one helluva dream. Are you sure you haven't read this somewhere, or been taking acid? There's this story of a girl who went around taking lovers from the market. Then her husband, who'd suspected for a while, caught her in the act, shot them both dead with a twelve-bore and went on a bender round the market. He murdered dozens of the guys who ran stalls and the place was shut down. That's all."

Once in a while, I go back to the midnight market early in the morning but I don't see any stalls. I see nothing but the pale mist and the ancient town. I stand in the square where once the market had been, and I wonder where the ghosts all went, where the dead market hides.

And sometimes, if I listen carefully, I can hear her whispers through the mist.