The sound of a text message drew her back to the space and the stream murmured, ominously; the message was from her mother:

Weather here great, how weather there? Any goss? Art going well?

Her mother was in the Tarn Valley, in France. She had married a former broker from Dublin who had bought a failing vineyard there. Her mother’s voice she could no longer bear to hear – it was high and trilling, it was from the valley of the squeaks. Texts were by now the limit of their interaction; this was understood. Her mother had cheekbones, new tits, an indulgent smile.

Sara texted:

Weather here glorious! Busy busy. Love lots! S xxx.

It was better to enter the contract of vapidity than to try to reason out the madness of that smile, or try to see past the cheekbones, the perfect teeth, the rampant-teenage-bunny tits.

Not to mention the little pink dresses.

Next came a shrapnel attack on the plate glass surrounds – a sudden assault of rain from the bay. She went around the room and turned off all the lamps. Her mind was moving so quick she felt the rain in her face before she slid open the doors and stepped outside.

A cloud mass travelled low over the bay, and now the quartermoon was obscured, and the rain came hard and slantwise, and there was a wind up to give an eeriness and she beamed ecstatically as the rain came through. It was generous and capable and soaked her to the bone in seconds flat.

She went back inside and stepped out of her clothes and shivered and she thought that maybe tonight she would cut on the inside of her thigh, top left, just there. The Sabatier block brooded in night’s shadow like a waiting bishop. She was moved to approach it.

Because this is not going to improve, Sara. This is blood-deep and malevolent. This is for always.

Thus the Dark Angel did whisper; thus did its soft words creep.

As she crossed the floor, she stumbled on the TV remote, and hit the mute on/off: the sound boomed again on UK Memories. It was advertising a new box set of Beatles remasters. It was playing ‘For No One’. The ninth time of listening, and she stood frozen in her step until the song had finished – a Message, unquestionably. But she picked up the remote and killed the TV.

And then the rain eased and played a slower beat on the plate glass in brush strokes. She went around the room and flicked all the lamps on. She went to the Sabatier block. She carefully withdrew the nine knives of the set. She carried two in one hand, three in the other and two wedged under each arm. She went towards the dark. She bent and slid open the plate glass doors with her mouth.

Outside.