It was another two months before Morris was allowed to go home, then three more months until he had recovered enough to push his wheelchair through the thick jungle of their untended lawn, till he reached the camper at the back of the yard.

*      *      *

Morris knew, of course, that she was dead, had resigned himself to it long ago.   Still it came as a shock when he slid the side door of the camper open and was greeted by the sight of what was left of Cassie: Her once beautiful face and desirable body had been reduced to a rotten, slimy carcase: The enormous breasts that Morris had loved to suck and pinch were now two great lumps of rotting lard, which seemed to be in the process of dissolving and running down the slope of her belly.   Her once beautiful face had been reduced to a grimacing death mask, the perfect teeth clenched horribly round the tight gag, which in desperation she had tried to chew through in a vain bid to call for help.   Her soft cheeks had rotted away or been consumed by maggots.   Her bright green eyes had burst long ago leaving the empty sockets staring up at Morris.   The full-lipped vagina, once the most wonderful thing Morris had ever experienced, was now nothing but a gaping, fly-blown cavity, an ugly gash from which ants swarmed by the hundreds, making Morris’ stomach churn to think that he had once made love to that crawling obscenity.

That was when Morris lost the last vestige of his self control: Frantically he began to push the wheelchair away from the camper, forgetting even to close the side door, in his haste to escape the abomination inside.

In his mad flight the wheelchair overturned halfway back to the house.   But as a rush of adrenaline surged through his fear-struck body, Morris somehow found the strength to drag himself across the lawn till reaching the back of the house, where his screams were finally heard by his mother, April.

“Oh my God!   My God!   Imagine him finding her like that!” said April Beitsal an hour later, as she was comforted by her husband and local police chief Andrew Castriotta.   “Poor Cassie.   My God, to think that she must have been out there for six years!   Who could have done it to her?”

Geoffrey Beitsal and the policeman exchanged a sharp look.   Then as Geoffrey glanced down at his feet, Castriotta looked across to where Morris was sleeping, sedated on the sofa.   Both men knew who had abducted Cassie Griffith, but both men would keep silent: Geoffrey to protect his wife, who had been hurt enough by the discovery of her sister’s decaying corpse; Castriotta because he knew he could never prove it unless Morris recovered his senses enough to confess, and even then, in his present state of mind, no Victorian magistrate would find him fit to stand trial.

THE END