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Nothing ever changed and yet Alec had aged regardless – in this room, in this house – as one entombed ante-mortem. His father had a lot to answer for.
‘It’s at the window. It’s smiling at me.’
Ben never understood why hell was sold as a fiery place. Death and sadness were always cold.
‘I’m not allowed to talk about him. That’s how he finds you.’
‘Three times you see him,’ she said. ‘The first night he’s far, far away. And then the next night he’s closer. So close that you can see him, and he can see you. And then, on the third night his big ugly face is at your window. The fourth night is your last one, because then uh-oh.’
He knew that behind the shutter he stood with his face inches from the glass, smiling, and waiting for strike three.
