Sara ran out of the gate at the bottom of the garden and into the path she had walked down earlier.
She was waiting for it to hit her. The sight of Baz’s blasted head, the wet splatter of his blood and brains on her face. The sight of Lionel set on by dogs, their huge animal heads shaking to pull pieces of his body apart.
Behind her, two men lay dead.
Her heart raced, and a queasy feeling roiled inside her.
She hunched over, waiting for her stomach to spasm and gorge to rise. Nothing came out, and she spat on to the ground.
She staggered down the path, placing her palms on to the fence walls for balance. Ahead of her lay Baz’s body, his still form lying in a pool of red-black blood.
Her stomach twisted again, and she felt blood rush to her head, making her feel woozy and light-headed. She weaved through the garden of 327 and gripped the door handle of the kitchen. Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she doubled over, waiting for the vomit to appear.
Behind her, she could hear the sounds of dogs chomping on wet flesh.
When the tide of sickness never arrived, she pulled down the handle and pushed the kitchen door open.
The kitchen was filthy. Piles of dirty crockery lay stacked on the counters, and black mould sprouted in the corners of the cupboards and floor.
‘Mother! Are you here?’
Her voice echoed through the house.
In the living room, the only pieces of furniture were a stained couch that ran along one wall and a chipped coffee table.
Sara’s breath was getting more and more shallow, on the edge of anxiety, and she didn’t notice the motorcycle helmet sitting on the coffee table until she was almost at the front door.
She walked back slowly and looked at it for a long time, as if expecting it to disappear like a mirage.
She reached down and picked it up. The outer casing was large and bulbous, but the interior padding created a much smaller cavity. She realized it belonged to a woman.
And that’s when she heard it.
The sound of water.
Coming from upstairs.
Someone was running a bath.
Sara climbed the stairs slowly, her breath coming in shallow wheezes, walked along the landing and stood in front of the open bathroom door.
Inside, an attractive woman in her late thirties, dressed in a black leather motorcycle one-piece, sat on the edge of the bath as the taps ran, filling the tub with water. Her long brown hair fell over one shoulder.
Sara tried to speak but couldn’t catch her breath.
‘Show me your hand,’ said the woman.
Sara looked back at her, confused.
‘Your hand, hold it up,’ the woman demanded.
Sara held her hand in front of her.
‘Look: there’s no tremor any more,’ said the woman. ‘That sickness you’re feeling. It’s adrenaline. You’re not traumatized. You’re energized.’
Sara realized the woman was right. The things she had witnessed should have engulfed her in a wave of horror. But the wave never arrived. She crouched down and forced herself to take several deep breaths.
‘Who are you?’ she said at last.
The woman looked at Sara, as if for the first time. Her eyes were dark, with an intelligence in them that took everything in.
‘You already know who I am.’
Sara nodded, as if to herself.
‘How did you know to find me here?’
‘The same way you knew you’d find me here,’ her mother replied.