But she did not come in, and, justifiably, the anger began to build again.

He went back to the whisky and soon after midnight he had drunk his fourteenth shot, counting the four he had taken earlier. He needed to calm his nerves. He needed to have it out with her. Who did she think she was? He worked and slaved to give her the best. But she was off with some man. He had suspected. He was never wrong.

When the door knocker went so loudly, Richard was fuzzy, and he thought that maybe Linda had forgotten her key. So he stood up and girded himself in rage, and went to the front door to open it.

It was not Linda who waited at the door.

A tall old man in a black coat.

No, a young man, with white hair…

"Richard?" asked this man, smiling at him.

"Yes, I'm Richard Reeves. Who are you?" And then the penny dropped. "Are you her bloke?"

Richard felt a mix of ferocity and alarm. He was not prepared. He was tired. This was his home ground. He tried to come out at the man, but the man instead came gliding in, and after him, like a creature of the night, a black-haired girl smothered in makeup.

"Where is your wife?" said the man.

"My—Linda's with you. Or she was. What do you want?"

"Then she isn't here," said Malach. "Oh, good. Ruth, shut the door." The girl he had called Ruth did so, and they were all inside Richard Reeves's house.

"Look here," said Richard, "I didn't ask you in."

"But here we are," said the man. "Go in there, and have another whisky."

"Don't you—"

The man pushed him, and Richard Reeves staggered crazily back into the main room. He thumped into a table and a large china cannister teetered. Richard held it down.

The white-haired man had also entered the room, and the girl had followed. They put wet prints into the carpet. What Richard had taken for a cheap imitation leopardskin coat turned out to be some sort of robe. Who were these people? What were they after?

"She described you well," said the man to Richard.

"Linda described—"

"Ruth. Ruth overheard your conversation with your wife."

Still smiling, kind, the white-haired man moved close to Richard. The scent of night and rain was on the man, and an odd fragrance of burning.

"I believe," said Malach, "you told her this." And then he struck Richard Reeves full in the belly. It was a soft belly and it did not resist.

Richard curved over and brought up his whisky on his carpet.

Malach stepped back.

When Richard had stopped puking, Malach kicked him in the side and Richard rolled over. Malach rested his booted foot on Richard's throat, pressing lightly on the windpipe. Richard tried to fight. Malach pressed harder.

"Don't," said Malach. "Just do as I want."

"There's money," gasped Richard. "I'll tell you where."