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wild was his hair and vacant his expression. Toby was not impressed at the intrusion of rainwater into his front hall and sauntered through to the kitchen to wait for food.
    John hung the waterproofs on a hook by the door and pulled off his soggy shoes. The hallway was dark and felt horribly empty and unwelcome. He looked out at the distorted reflections of streetlights through the frosted glass and gathered the strength to make the house his own.
    Houses need warming up emotionally. When left to chill they become soulless places of cool brick and isolation. John knew this only too well now he lived alone. He worked his way through the downstairs, turning on lights and drawing curtains. He inserted a CD, wanting to beat away the silence. He walked into the kitchen, paying off Toby with a couple of scoops of cat meat so that he could open a bottle of wine in peace. Just one glass, he decided, to warm him up and wash down dinner. Not that he had much time to eat. He’d need to leave the house again in three-quarters of an hour and he foolishly felt the need to wash away the rain with a warm shower before heading out in it once again. He found pasta leftovers and sipped at his wine while he watched the cling-filmed bowl revolve beyond the glass door of the microwave. Tonight’s ‘demonstration’ was not far away at a small venue somewhere behind Euston Station, on a pleasant day it would have been an enjoyable walk.
    His letterbox rattled and he stepped into the hallway to see what had been dropped through. The floor was empty. He decided it must have been the wind. Above him the stairs creaked and he glanced up through the balusters.
    ‘Jane?’ The word was out of his mouth before he had even thought about it and he pressed his hand to his lips as if shocked by their thoughtlessness. He shared the house with nobody else, of course, but still, he was not so deluded as to think it was his wife making the boards creak. He definitely couldn’t catch her shape in the dark shadow that gathered towards the roof. Couldn’t imagine her feet, pale blue veins running underneath the white skin, as they descended into the light, the only part of her that would dare to do so. He could see nothing of the sort. And just to make sure of the fact he went back into the kitchen where the microwave switched itself off with an earthly ‘ping’. He drained his wine, poured another and refused to imagine that his dead wife was descending the stairs and making her dry and creaky way towards his turned back.
    He ate quickly, shaking off his fears and nerves with every hot forkful. He was a silly, over-imaginative old man and he should know better. Had Jane taken every rational part of him with her when she died?
    He forced himself upstairs, refusing to turn the light on until he reached the landing. He wouldn’t be scared in his own home.
    Turning on the shower he stripped off and caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror.
    How ridiculous age makes us, he thought, looking at his pale, stodgy body. And not just the flesh, he admitted before stepping into the shower.
    He turned on the water to as hot as he could bear, which stung and his skin glowed pink. It made him growl as he frothed his hair into a plume of foam. If only everything could be scrubbed away by hot water and soap. He rinsed the shampoo from his head and rubbed at his eyes, opening them to see something move beyond the steamed-up, frosted plastic of the shower cubicle. He froze, staring at the indistinct shape a couple of feet away. It was still now but he was sure he had seen it sway. It was a game of statues, the thing had been advancing on him while his eyes were closed but now, while watched, it was as immobile as he was, waiting for his attention to move away so it could creep forward again. But his attention wouldn’t fade. He didn’t dare allow it to. The shower continued to dowse him and he was grateful for the noise it made. He didn’t want to know what the