her. It felt good. That done, she washed the knife, rinsed the sink and returned along 
the landing without bothering to dry herself or to dress.
    She had no need for either. The room was like a furnace, as the dead man's energies 
pulsed from his body. They didn't get far. Already the blood on the floor was crawling 
away toward the wall where Frank was, the beads seeming to boil and evaporate as they 
came within range of the skirting boards. She watched, entranced. But there was more. 
Something was happening to the corpse. It was being drained of every nutritious element, 
the body convulsing as its innards were sucked out, gases moaning in its bowels and 
throat, the skin dessicating in front of her startled eyes. At one point the plastic 
teeth dropped back into the gullet, the gums withered around them.
    And in mere moments, it was done. Anything the body might have usefully offered by 
way of nourishment had been taken; the husk that remained would not have sustained a 
family of fleas. She was impressed.
    Suddenly, the bulb began to flicker. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble 
and spit her lover from hiding. But no. The bulb went out. There was only the dim light 
that crept through the age-beaten blind.
    "Where are you?" she said.
    The walls remained mute.
    "Where are you?"
    Still nothing. The room was cooling. Her breasts had grown gooseflesh. She peered 
down at the luminous watch on the lamb's shriveled arm. It ticked away, indifferent to 
the apocalypse that had overtaken its owner. It read 4:41. Rory would be back anytime 
after 5:15, depending on how dense the traffic was. She had work to do before then.
    Bundling up the blue suit and the rest of his clothes, she put them in several 
plastic bags, and then went in search of a larger bag for the remains. She had expected 
Frank to be here to help her with this labor, but as he hadn't shown she had no choice 
but to do it herself. When she came back to the room, the deterioration of the lamb was 
still continuing, though now much slowed. Perhaps Frank was still finding nutriments to 
squeeze from the corpse, but she doubted it. More likely the pauperized body, sucked 
clean of marrow and every vital fluid, was no longer strong enough to support itself. 
When she had parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. 
Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front 
door open.
    The sound undammed all the panic she'd so assiduously kept from herself. She began to 
shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.
    "Not now..." she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any 
longer.
    In the hallway below, Rory said: "Sweetheart?"
    Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to 
find her-his sweetheart, his honeybun-with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her 
arms.
    "Where are you?"
    She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the 
deception.
    He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the 
kitchen. It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn't at the cooker 
stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, 
fifteen at most.
    Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements 
overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small 
to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had used it as a dump. 
Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner 
of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she 
locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was 
coming up.
    "Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?"
    She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed 
portrait. She picked up the blouse she'd left hanging over the side of the bath and put 
it on. It smelled stale, and there was undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, 
but she had nothing else to wear.
    He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.
    "Julia?"
    This time, she answered-making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her 
voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass 
herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.
    "Are you all right?" he asked her. He was outside the door.
    "No," she said. "I'm feeling sick."
    "Oh, darling..."
    "I'll be fine in a minute."
    He tried the handle, but she'd bolted the door.
    "Can you leave me alone for a little while?"
    "Do you want a doctor?"
    "No," she told him. "No. Really. But I wouldn't mind a brandy-"
    "Brandy..."
    "I'll be down in two ticks."
    "Whatever madam wants," he quipped. She counted his steps as he trudged to the 
stairs, then descended. Once she'd calculated that he was out of earshot, she slid back 
the bolt and stepped onto the landing.
    The late afternoon light was failing quickly; the landing was a murky tunnel.
    Downstairs, she heard the clink of glass on glass. She moved as quickly as she dared 
to Frank's room.
    There was no sound from the gloomed interior. The walls no longer trembled, nor did 
distant bells toll. She pushed the door open; it creaked slightly.
    She had not entirely tidied up after her labors. There was dust on the floor, human 
dust, and fragments of dried flesh. She went down on her haunches and collected them up 
diligently. Rory had been right. What a perfect hausfrau she made.
    As she stood up again, something shifted in the ever-denser shadows of the room. She 
looked in the direction of the movement, but before her eyes could make sense of the form 
in the corner, a voice said: "Don't look at me."
    It was a tired voice-the voice of somebody used up by events; but it was concrete. 
The syllables were carried on the same air that she breathed.
    "Frank," she said.
    "Yes..." came the broken voice, "it's...me.
    From downstairs, Rory called up to her. "Are you feeling better?"
    She went to the door.
    "Much better," she responded. At her back the hidden thing said: "Don't let him near 
me, " the words coming fast and fierce.
    "It's all right," she whispered to him. Then, to Rory: "I'll be with you in a minute. 
Put on some music. Something soothing."
    Rory replied that he would, and retired to the lounge.