James Gorden’s decomposing, headless body is sitting opposite me, propped up on a chair with his hands placed neatly in his lap, as though posing for a school photograph. The corpse is bloated and sagging, like the balloon remnants from a child’s party. I only recognise him from the t-shirt, a large baggy thing with a Harry Potter lightning bolt across the chest, and, of course, the fact that there’s no head.
OH MY GOD I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE HER DAD OR SOMETHING
