He doesn’t break and enter. They never lock the door. He enters, and watches their faces drop, wrinkle by wrinkle, sag by sag. Oh, my, they say.

They don’t for long. Blood on a cupcake-printed apron, bright against the plastic. It clashes with the knitted jumper, with the baggy cords beneath.

Before the wife can scream, there’s more. Blood blending with burgundy leggings, her white-wool poncho turning red. Two thuds, and four glass eyes. He places the knife on the chessboard floor and drags the bodies away.

The living room table is laid. How quaint. Three plates, three knives, three forks. An orchid in the centre. Two candles. Pretty cups.

He hoists the couple onto the sofa. Their heads lean together, and he leaves them that way. Doomed, ancient lovebirds. He turns the TV on. Doomed, ancient lovebirds, forever enshrined in a lack of meaning. The voices inside him cackle and keen.

A clean shirt and a thick pen: one, two, check. He drops his old shirt on the stairs, makes his mark, and considers. The scene is set. All is as it should be.

The knife he deserts on the chessboard floor. Let them find his fingerprints; they’ll never lead to him. Rebirth changes more than death, and what a merry chase.

Besides, soon enough, he’ll be gone. Lifting his coat from the peg, he snicks the door shut. No one, returning to nowhere.

Happy New Year.