It was a woman I think. Some sleeping Iremonger lady. There was a night light on, dimly lit, giving me a little show of what was about. Neat place. Nothing out of order. Only strange thing was a small skillet on her bedside table. A small skillet beside a silver hairbrush and mirror, and a photograph of some fellow in a top hat holding a brass bedpan; the frame was silver. So what’s a cast iron skillet doing there then, ruining the display? Then I had it. It was her birth object, must be. This old woman under her covers kept her skillet with her day and night, she slept right by it, to feel that it was safe. What an Iremonger.

Well, I don’t love the Iremongers do I, I thought, can’t say that they’ve done right by me, can I? And I said to myself, I’ll have that. I’ll take that, thank you very much. I can hit with that, it’s a weapon of sorts, and it’s your bloody birth object, you snoring Iremonger, you dumb lump you; yes, by God, I’ll have it. I picked it off the night stand. It was quite heavy for a thing that size. I liked the weight of it. It felt like I’d got something. I possessed something right enough. Mine. And I left the woman fast asleep, what a chicken screech she’d give in the morning. If there was a morning, couldn’t be certain of that any more. Right then, Clod. Where are you, Clod, where are you this night? Which door shall I find you behind? Sitting room? Sitting room.

Sitting Room. Just as it always was. Up the staircase. Easy to find. Victory, I thought. No one there though. Just the red seat, nothing else. Well, wait then. Just wait. Wait for a while. He’ll come. Sure to come.

I found my place behind the sofa. On the floor. Put my skillet down. On the floor. Under the sofa. And now to keep a look out, look out from under the sofa.

The storm smashed on. Bringing noises everywhere. House shaking. And me just waiting, waiting in the Sitting Room, behind the red sofa, on the floor. Come on. Come on.

Door opened then. Here he is! Up I get! No, no, Lucy, you fool, make sure it’s him. Let him show himself. You, Clod? Is it you?