‘No danger of that. No one’s wanted to touch you for the longest time, have they? Does it still hurt? I bet it pains you at night. How long were you burning before someone rescued you? You must have thought you were going to die. I know you’ve spent a lot of time since then wishing you had.’

‘How do you know that?’ the farmer asked The Crow’s image in the mirror. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m everything,’ The Crow replied. ‘Now, what I need you to do is push the barrel of the shotgun into the side of your neck. Here, let me help.’ Keeping his handgun pressed into the small of the farmer’s back, he used his right hand to elevate the shotgun. ‘You just put your finger on the trigger. I’ll take the weight.’

The farmer made the mistake of looking him in the eyes before making his move. The Crow was only surprised he left it as late as he did and he was ready when the farmer pushed backwards, away from the sink, trying to bring a heavy fist round and into his face. The Crow let off a single shot, carefully aimed to be non-fatal but ensure compliance, through the left shoulder. It was a shame the mirror got shattered, ruining the setting, but it couldn’t be helped.

‘I don’t think you’d enjoy a slow death,’ The Crow whispered as the farmer staggered against the sink clutching his shoulder.

A steady scarlet stream was running down his chest and dripping into the sink. The metallic odour hit the air, sharp and reeking of endings.

‘So, let’s try again.’

The farmer was crying now – that was unexpected. The tears took a winding path down his cheeks, over the roughened skin, rivulets splitting off and leaving his face a glittering rocky terrain. Raising the gun once more, The Crow had no choice but to hold his fingers over the trigger. The farmer’s were shaking too badly to leave him to make his final move unaided.

Another bang came from upstairs. The farmer and The Crow both looked at the ceiling at the same moment. The Crow wasn’t afraid, but it was only sensible to ensure he didn’t lose what was in his hands after so much preparation. The farmer was slipping now, the blood loss and shock taking its toll.

With one arm around the man’s waist and the other over his trigger finger, The Crow made sure the barrel wasn’t pointed in his own direction, then squeezed. The sound in that tiny room was overwhelming. The Crow’s ear drums popped painfully and for one panicked moment, he thought they might both have burst. The farmer dropped to the floor, his head flopping lifelessly over his chest, his ending illustrated perfectly on the newly reddened wall to their left.