Inside, the door double-locked behind me, I make tea and sit by the window, one slat removed, watching 64. I shouldn’t really expose us but I need more sunlight. I don’t want to see the house but it’s right in front of me, there’s nothing else to do but look. I don’t want to remember what I saw but it’s there in my head. It was three weeks afterwards, early Sunday morning. We’d made love, lay in bed shivering and not talking about Sherwin, when we heard screams coming from the street. Danny got up, the gun tight between his fingers, and removed the slat very carefully. It was the young woman. I didn’t know her name, but she lived alone, ever since I moved in. She had her shopping trolley with her, had been on her way to the Tsois maybe, when a small kill party must have caught sight of her. There were only four men but they surrounded the woman and were pushing her from one to the other like bullies, laughing loud, whooping, using each push to tear clothing, punch or kick her, ripping the trolley from her hands and throwing it into someone’s basement. The woman was screaming; an odd, breathy sound that reminded me of when I’d punctured the hose of my vacuum cleaner. It was difficult to see what weapons they had, but there must have been a knife because after one big push she clutched her stomach, and the laughter got louder, and her cream dress grew red with blood, and she stumbled and dropped to her knees. That’s when they fell on her, punching, kicking and stabbing until she lay still in the middle of the road. One of them dragged her body all the way down the road by the ankle, until they were out of sight, the others still kicking at her. God knows what they did afterwards, as if that wasn’t enough. And we watched. We sat inside our house and watched, didn’t do a fucking thing. Danny put the slat back as carefully as he’d removed it, and much later, he went to work as normal.