to be in middle age, stocky, balding. When he followed Julia into the house he gave a 
nervous backward glance, as if fearful of voyeurs.
    She waited in her hiding place for a further quarter of an hour, not certain of what 
to do next. Did she linger here until the man emerged, and challenge him? Or did she go 
to the house and try to talk her way inside? Neither option was particularly attractive. 
She decided not to decide. Instead she would get closer to the house, and see what 
inspiration the moment brought.
    The answer was, very little. As she made her way up the path her feet itched to turn 
and carry her away. Indeed she was within an ace of doing just that when she heard a 
shout from within.
    The man's name was Sykes, Stanley Sykes. Nor was that all he'd told Julia on the way 
back from the bar. She knew his wife's name (Maudie) and occupation (assistant 
chiropodist); she'd had pictures of the children (Rebecca and Ethan) provided for her to 
coo over. The man seemed to be defying her to continue the seduction. She merely smiled, 
and told him he was a lucky man.
    But once in the house, things had begun to go awry. Halfway up the stairs friend 
Sykes had suddenly announced that what they were doing was wrong-that God saw them, and 
knew their hearts, and found them wanting. She had done her best to calm him, but he was 
not to be won back from the Lord. Instead, he lost his temper and flailed out at her. He 
might have done worse, in his righteous wrath, but for the voice that had called him from 
the landing. He'd stopped hitting her instantly and become so pale it was as if he 
believed God himself was doing the calling. Then Frank had appeared at the top of the 
stairs, in all his glory. Sykes had loosed a cry, and tried to run. But Julia was quick. 
She had her hand on him long enough for Frank to descend the few stairs and make a 
permanent arrest.
    She had not realized, until she heard the creak and snap of bone as Frank took hold 
of his prey, how strong he had become of late: stronger surely than a natural man. At 
Frank's touch Sykes had shouted again. To silence him, Frank wrenched off his jaw.
    The second shout that Kirsty had heard had ended abruptly, but she read enough panic 
in the din to have her at the door and on the verge of knocking.
    Only then did she think better of it. Instead, she slipped down the side of the 
house, doubting with every step the wisdom of this, but equally certain that a frontal 
assault would get her nowhere. The gate that offered access to the back garden was 
lacking a bolt. She slipped through, her ears alive to every sound, especially that of 
her own feet. From the house, nothing. Not so much as a moan.
    Leaving the gate open in case she should need a quick retreat, she hurried to the 
back door. It was unlocked. This time, she let doubt slow her step. Maybe she should go 
and call Rory, bring him to the house. But by that time whatever was happening inside 
would be over, and she knew damn well that unless Julia was caught red-handed she would 
slide from under any accusation. No, this was the only way. She stepped inside.
    The house remained completely quiet. There was not even a footfall to help her locate 
the actors she'd come to view. She moved to the kitchen door, and from there through to 
the dining room. Her stomach twitched; her throat was suddenly so dry she could barely 
swallow.
    From dining room to lounge, and thence into the hallway. Still nothing, no whisper or 
sigh. Julia and her companion could only be upstairs, which suggested that she had been 
wrong, thinking she heard fear in the shouts. Perhaps it was pleasure that she'd heard. 
An orgasmic whoop, instead of the terror she'd taken it for. It was an easy mistake to 
make.
    The front door was on her right, mere yards away. She could still slip out and away, 
the coward in her tempted, and no one be any the wiser. But a fierce curiosity had seized 
her, a desire to know (to see) the mysteries the house held, and be done with them. As 
she climbed the stairs the curiosity mounted to a kind of exhilaration.
    She reached the top, and began to make her way along the landing. The thought 
occurred now that the birds had flown, that while she had been creeping through from the 
back of the house they had left via the front.
    The first door on the left was the bedroom: if they were mating anywhere, Julia and 
her paramour, it would surely be here. But no. The door stood ajar; she peered in. The 
bedspread was uncreased.
    Then, a misshapen cry. So near, so loud, her heart missed its rhythm.
    She ducked out of the bedroom, to see a figure lurch from one of the rooms farther 
along the landing. It took her a moment to recognize the fretful man who had arrived with 
Julia-and only then by his clothes. The rest was changed, horribly changed. A wasting 
disease had seized him in the minutes since she'd seen him on the step, shriveling his 
flesh on the bone.
    Seeing Kirsty, he threw himself toward her, seeking what fragile protection she could 
offer. He had got no more than a pace from the door however, when a form spilled into 
sight behind him. It too seemed diseased, its body bandaged from head to foot-the 
bindings stained by issues of blood and pus. There was nothing in its speed, however, or 
the ferocity of its subsequent attack, that suggested sickness. Quite the reverse. It 
reached for the fleeing man and took hold of him by the neck. Kirsty let out a cry, as 
the captor drew its prey back into its embrace.
    The victim made what little complaint his dislocated face was capable of. Then the 
antagonist tightened its embrace. The body trembled and twitched; its legs buckled. Blood 
spurted from eyes and nose and mouth. Spots of it filled the air like hot hail, breaking 
against her brow. The sensation snapped her from her inertia. This was no time to wait 
and watch. She ran.
    The monster made no pursuit. She reached the top of the stairs without being 
overtaken. But as her foot descended, it addressed her.
    Its voice was...familiar.
    "There you are," it said.
    It spoke with melting tones, as if it knew her. She stopped.
    "Kirsty," it said. "Wait a while."
    Her head told her to run. Her gut defied the wisdom, however. It wanted to remember 
whose voice this was, speaking from the binding. She could still make good her escape, 
she reasoned; she had an eight-yard start. She looked round at the figure. The body in 
its arms had curled up, fetally, legs against chest. The beast dropped it.
    "You killed him..." she said.
    The thing nodded. It had no apologies to make, apparently, to either victim or 
witness.
    "We'll mourn him later," it told her and took a step toward her.
    "Where's Julia?" Kirsty demanded.
    "Don't you fret. All's well..." the voice said. She was so close to remembering who 
it was.
    As she puzzled it took another step, one hand upon the wall, as if its balance was 
still uncertain.
    "I saw you," it went on. "And I think you saw me. At the window..."
    Her mystification increased. Had this thing been in the house that long? If so, 
surely Rory must-.
    And then she knew the voice.