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something out of a pulp novel, or a scary movie.
    Â Â "Fuck." Sarah whispered into the grey room, enjoying the way the word tasted. "Fuck." She slid out of bed and left the room, closing the door gently behind her so she did not disturb her lover. She smiled. Is that what he is, my part-time lover ? My bat tle-scarred paramour?
    Â Â The house lay in shadow. It was still early – just about dawn; she could see its first light at the landing windows – and sleep had somehow eluded her. All she'd managed was a brief nap before the nightmares had woken her. She never remembered the dreams, yet she always retained a sense that they were buried deep within her, plucking at her insides with terrible sharp claws made of glass and steel. They were a part of her, those dreams, and she would never be rid of them.
    Â Â She padded down the stairs, feeling like a visitor in her own property. Since inheriting the place in her father's will, she had struggled to grow accustomed to the big draughty rooms and the old, creaking timbers. Even when she had lived here as a child, it had never felt like a home: just a house, a temporary shelter in which to stay until she was old enough to run away. A place where her childhood fears dwelled. Sometimes it even felt like a prison.
    Â Â The living room was a mess. Her father had died over seven months ago of a sudden heart attack, but she was still trying to find the time to sort through his hoarded possessions, which were crammed into every inch of the place. Sarah had put off the job for as long as possible, feeling uneasy and guilty at the thought of rummaging among her father's things. She had never been allowed to touch his stuff when he was alive, and the strength of the man's personality still lingered, causing her to stay within those childhood boundaries. She had not seen him for five years until the day she viewed him in his open coffin, but the bastard continued to terrify her.
    Â Â When she had stood over him, looking down into the cheap casket, she had expected his eyes to flicker open, his mouth to curl upwards into a sarcastic grin, and his body to sit up as he looked around in judgement at the gathered congregation. Whenever she played out this fantasy in her head, everyone at the funeral would laugh. They turned to her, their faces slick with sweat, pointed their bony fingers, and roared with a frightening humour, enjoying a joke from which she was excluded…
    Â Â Sarah was a good copper – a promising young constable who was tipped by those who mattered to make detective when it came time for her to make her career choices – but an old and nagging fear held her back. She was courageous on the job, was even prepared to take on a man twice her size in a confrontation, but when it came to the memory of her father, something made her lose her nerve and revert to the little girl who hid in corners and kept watch for her daddy. The past, she thought, was like glue. No matter how far you thought you had moved on, it kept you stuck in one spot.
    Â Â "Bastard," she said, raising her head to look at the ceiling. There were cobwebs gathered in the corners. The lampshades were filled with the tiny, hard sweet-shop cadavers of flies. "Can you hear me, you old shite?"
    Â Â There was no reply. Of course there wasn't. The old man was dead. He was dead, but he was far from gone. That dry, throaty chuckle was just the sound of pipes clattering noisily behind the walls. The heavy tread of footsteps across the floor above was nothing but timbers settling as she stood in the cold room, warming it incrementally with her body heat. She knew this; it was obvious. Yet still she was unable to rid herself of the idea that he was standing in one of the upper rooms, rocking on his heels and enjoying yet another of his obscure jokes at her expense. Shaking in silent mirth.
    Â Â "Stop it." She was speaking to herself, but it didn't feel that