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Whoever is waiting in the dark can fuck-buggering stay there.
    He turns. Begins to creep back down the stairs.
    This time the sound is unmistakable. Running feet. Sudden movement. Coming closer.
    Harry looks up.
    Crack.
    Opens his mouth to let rip with a stream of invective, but finds himself wordless. His tongue has been crushed to pulp between his back teeth; a reflex reaction to the hammer blow that has struck him just above the left temple.
    Movement. Bone-jarring impact. Thuds and cracks.
    Harry finds himself upside down. Right way up again. Feels his old limbs twisted into unnatural directions as they jar with the brick and stair.
    Darkness.
    Now red clouds.
    A sensation of friction at his back and pressure at his wrists.
    Now he is looking at the ceiling from an angle he has never seen it before. Now there is dusty, cheap carpet by his face.
How did that happen? Why am I at the bottom of the stairs?
    He blinks. The effort pains him. It seems to awaken other senses.
    Agony grabs him. Twists him in its fist.
    He looks up. Sees a face. Halfway familiar; attractive and cold.
    A voice. Soft, in his ear.
    “Her real name. It’s not here. Just ‘Blossoms.’ I already know that.”
    The voice sounds as if it were underwater. Harry hears an echo. Feels dampness on his skin.
    “I never really thought it would be here. I knew you wouldn’t check. Just a name and a number. And the number isn’t real.”
    Harry wants to speak. Wants to ask for help. An ambulance.
    Harry manages a croak.
    “I’m sorry. I’m getting desperate. I had to try. I don’t even know if it’s her. He said ‘Suzie,’ but he could have lied . . .”
    He croaks again. Tastes blood. Blood and vodka.
    “It keeps getting worse. It could have been simple. Now look where we are. There will be more, I know it. I’ve just made it worse. He’ll be so angry . . .”
    Harry knows what he wants to say. Can feel the words lining up in his mind. Wants to say that, whatever this is about, he will never speak of it. Wants to say that he can feel himself dying and cannot stand it. Wants to know where his glasses are, and whether they can be fixed.
    “I thought your neck was broken. I think it is. I don’t know. I could have walked away if your neck was broken. Now it has to be an accident.”
    Harry tries to move. Realizes he cannot feel his limbs. That it only hurts on one side of his body. On the other, he can feel nothing.
    “I’m so sorry.”
    He lies broken. His limbs broken branches, his back shattered glass. He is on his back, wedged in the doorway. His positioning tells the story of his death. Of a man who slipped climbing the stairs, and who could not put out the flames . . .
    His neck is twisted gruesomely to the left, so Harry does not see the cigarette butt that a gloved hand grinds into his vodka-soaked T-shirt. Cannot move his arms to flick it away. Can only watch, eyeballs climbing out of his skull, as it begins to smolder.
    He sees his killer walking to the back door, the same hammer in hand that was used to force the lock and crack his skull.
    Pain now. Heat. Smoke and flame.
    He gulps hard, trying to clear his mouth; to speak.
    Swallows clotting blood. Begins to choke.
    Coughs and pukes, choking on blood and sick, as the flames take hold of his ragged clothes and spread to the floor.
    He is dead before he has to endure the stench of his own cooking skin.

SUZIE’S POSTURE implies prayer. She is bent forward, elbows on her knees, palms clasped fast, both thumbs pressed hard enough into her forehead to make grooves. Her lips move soundlessly, as though begging forgiveness or benefaction.
    Her thoughts are far from divine.
    She is lost in memory. Consumed by a recollection that has surfaced unbidden.
    For a moment, she is entering the red room, with its glitter ball and its velvet sheets. She is gazing upon naked forms. Is recoiling, spluttering in nervous laughter, drunk and giddy enough to change the mood. She is staring into a