When he got his mental equilibrium back to square one Scartaum picked up his phone to call the cops but just when he was dialing he realised how bad this was all gonna look when they arrived with the blood and the dead Sophistia and how stupid his story was gonna sound and how they would probably not believe him of any word he said and he put the phone back in his pocket, washed his hands and tried to clean the blood off his shoes in the bathtub with the shower and paper towels then he packed a bag and dyed his hair a orange colour using a mixture of spices and children’s paints that were left in a drawer in the kitchen for some inexplicable reason.

Thus disguised Spartan took a cab (taxi) to the airport, weeping and mourning Sophistia and shaping up badly the whole way, staring out the windows at his beloved Lisboa and knowing that he was leaving for good, the beautiful lights and the darkness of the waterfront and his love, his love, his love that he would not see no more. And then as they went off the freeway he suddenly remembered that he had not got his passport with him and he told the driver to turn around and the driver turned around and they went back to the apartment and the taxi waited by the Pastelaria (sic) where the steam engines were starting to work overtime and Sparton went up the stairs in a state of trepidations and dread and opened the door with trembling heart and also hands.

Inside the apartment it was empty and there was no Sophistia all bloody and wounded and dead and there was no blood anywhere anymore and Spartan moved slowly from one room to another, rubbing at his eyes, heart clamouring, and but he thought and what and what and if and why and when and what and what and how and how and how and why and what and when and why and what and why and what and if and why and what the fuck.

Scartan called her name: Sophistia.

No answer.

Hand on the Passport in the drawer beside the TV, he thought of course that if she was really not dead then he did not have to leave Lisboa but then he picked it up anyway (the passport), walked out of the door and down the stairs, and fell into the back of the car ‘once again’ ©. Things were too twisted up, he thought, he knew he could not stay.

On the lonely road to the airport the driver offered only radio therapy and few words of wisdom, Scartan paid with a fist of coins, hit up the EasyJet counter and purchased a ticket back to Endland (sic).