I try again for a dial tone but Simon’s jammer must still be working. I’m going to have to go next door to call an ambulance. Not that there’s any great rush now. His eyes are open and unmoving and his head has a halo of dark-red blood.
Carefully I pick my way down the stairs and around the living room, skirting the pearls that still dangerously litter the floor, one hand curled protectively over my belly. My path brings me close to the big glass windows. Almost unconsciously I stop and wipe at the bloody graffiti with my sleeve. It comes off easily, revealing the reflection of my face against the darkness beyond.
It will all come off, I think. All this mess, this superficial disorder. The blood, and Simon’s body, will soon be gone. The house will be pristine again. Like a living organism expelling a tiny splinter, One Folgate Street has healed itself.
I feel an overwhelming sense of serenity, of peace. I look at my reflection in the dark glass, feeling the house acknowledge me; both of us, in our different ways, ripe with possibility.