It took Heath almost twenty minutes to find the small camera in the semi-darkness, despite his prior knowledge. When he did find it, he held it close to his face, surprised by the tiny lens. He knew his disguise masked his identity. He was wearing his mother’s clothes, full make-up and dark wig, which when complemented by the tight nylon stocking made him totally unrecognisable. He was confident in and amused by the likely future impact of his deception, and so he returned the camera to its original position as if he hadn’t found it at all.

Heath strolled casually across the lawn, which was badly in need of cutting. He took Lottie’s pyjama top from his backpack, pulled up his skirt and his pants down, and shat on it, using a comparatively clean sleeve to wipe himself before repositioning his clothing to their original position. He then hung the stinking top at the centre of the clothesline, taking care to maximise its impact when it was first seen in the light of day. He stifled a laugh as he stood back and admired the results of his efforts. And then congratulated himself on his achievements as he walked away, resisting the impulse to invade the house, drag Megan from her bed and show her exactly what he’d done.

Heath approached the wall, glancing back at the soiled top for one final time before climbing the structure with relative ease. As he dropped back onto the stony path, his adrenaline-fuelled elation was already slowly subsiding, to be replaced by the desire to inflict greater suffering and ultimately death. He knew that he was approaching the end game. There was only so long he could refrain from murder, however hard he tried and whatever the pay-off. Maybe he’d give it another week. Could he manage a week? Yes, why not kill the brat first and then the bitch mother?

As he skipped along the path filled with a new sense of anticipation fed by fantasy, Heath entertained what he considered his most fabulous ever idea. Why not kill the brat in front of the bitch mother? He ejaculated spontaneously, without the need to touch himself, and then punched the air. Yes, yes, yes! Make the bitch watch! It was genius, inspired. It would be the worst moment of her life, as she watched, helpless, begging for mercy that didn’t come. And then he’d kill her too, when he was ready, when he’d had his fun. Maybe record it all on film for the father to see. And the pigs, they could see the results of their failure and witness his greatness.

As Heath entered his Victorian house, he was on a high, more significant than that engendered by any drug. His mother appeared on the landing as he climbed the stairs, and for the first time in memory, she smiled at him, uttering warm words of reassurance and congratulation, as opposed to the usual morale-sapping criticism with which he’d become so familiar. Heath had never felt more validated or more powerful. He was exalted, a prince amongst men, special in every way.