Heath raised a hand to his mouth, touching his lips as he searched his troubled mind for reassurance. Thank fuck for the inheritance, and for his father’s timely death too. The one good thing the morale-sapping, supercilious old git ever did in his miserable life. It almost made up for the man’s many failings, the constant criticisms, the total lack of any emotional warmth and worse, much worse.

It had destroyed his self-worth – the negative experience of his childhood. Yes, yes, that’s what the psychiatrist had said in that know-it-all, self-important way of hers after the drowning of his needy little sister. Were all doctors so full of themselves? She was a stuck-up cow, with such a predictably unjustified sense of superiority. What a bitch, Dr know-it-all! Why not track her down? Why not destroy her life as his was destroyed? It wasn’t too late. Maybe that would help alleviate his angst. Perhaps he should kill her too.

Heath crossed the room and studied the six-by-four-inch colour photo of his mother, pasted on the attic wall immediately next to a large gilt-framed mirror he’d taken from the parlour wall several days before. He pulled on a long black wig made from real human hair, tugging it first one way and then another, adjusting it repeatedly before taking a pair of stainless steel scissors and carefully trimming the fringe, ensuring it matched his mother’s style as closely as possible.

Heath craned his neck, moving a little closer to the mirror, edging forward, once, then again, applying bright red lipstick, studying his reflection, his nose almost touching the glass. The lipstick wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t an exact match. It wasn’t perfect. But it was probably the best he’d achieved up to that point. It was acceptable, wasn’t it? He’d gone to a lot of effort, ruling out numerous other shades before deciding on the cherry-red. Surely it was good enough.

Heath looked in the mirror and saw his mother’s face staring back at him, as if she was there in the room, reincarnated, as if she hadn’t died. She was as real to him as she had been in life, as real as flesh and blood. She was staring at his lips with fixed, unblinking eyes, shaking her head with a look of unbridled disapproval on her face, that was all too familiar. When he heard her speak only seconds later, her tone was critical, as it often was in life.

‘Cherry-red, what were you thinking, boy? It’s nothing like my lipstick, not even close.’

Heath tore the wig from his head, flinging it to the floor in an attempt to silence her. But his overactive imagination wouldn’t let up. The voice was still there, getting louder, reverberating around the room, filling the space with continuous sound that seemed all too real. ‘You really are a stupid boy.’

He hit out, striking air. ‘Shut up, shut the fuck up! I wonder why I bother with you sometimes.’

‘Don’t ever go thinking you can escape me that easily, you little shit. I know exactly what you did to Pamela. I’m going to haunt you for as long as you live. Did you hear me, Henry? You brought this on yourself. I’ll never let you go.’