As lucidity and sensitivity flowed back into her, her only sense was that of a fading sensation; a totally different one to the physical indifference she had felt just moments ago. This time, she was slipping. Her chest heaved violently and gasped for air as her cells used up the last of their precious oxygen. She could feel her lungs burning, thrusting against the inside of her ribcage as they lunged desperately for an intake of that precious nectar. But none was forthcoming. As her vision faded to black via dancing stars, she felt a new kind of consciousness. As black faded back through dancing stars, the air flowed back into her lungs, which gasped and gulped, the burning sensation making her chest heave. She had heard no sound, except for the shrill piercing sound of tinnitus. Not, that is, until she looked up in the direction of where her killer had been stood.
‘Fuck me, that was bloody lucky. Thought I'd got the wrong house for a minute.’
‘Guv!’ she choked, desperately looking around her, ‘Where is he? Where's Michael?’
Culverhouse raised his hand to show Wendy the blood-spattered kettle, a head-shaped dent in the side of it.
‘I don't think he'll be getting up for a while. Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Not right now,’ Wendy laughed, mostly out of relief. ‘What made you come here? I said I would be fine.’
‘And I said you wouldn't be. Was I wrong?’
‘You never are, are you?’ she said with gritted teeth.
‘Bloody good job too, eh?’