The young man went and came back, stopping at the doorway next to the lieutenant. He looked forlornly at his brother’s body.

“So?” asked Maria. “Does it work?”

“No.”

“Which one?”

“Errr . . .”

“Which key from the left?”

“The third one. I think.”

“Got it,” nodded Maria. The bitter taste would not fade and her stomach turned. But she tried to ignore it. “And who plays on it anyway? Did your brother play?”

“Him? Nah. Mum used to play.”

“Not anymore she won’t,” thought Maria and resumed her examination. “Go back to the kitchen, I’ll call you later.”

The lieutenant sighed and led the young man out to write up a statement. They spoke loudly, so Maria could hear them as she tried to evaluate the post-mortem haemorrhage, examining pupils and neck.

The lieutenant asked his questions, and the young man stammered his responses.

“We called him yesterday, but he didn’t pick up. We thought he was sleeping . . . I came home and my mother was out of it, there was nothing we could do to calm her down. She was just crying and crying, saying: ‘in the bathroom, in the bathroom.’ Dad and I couldn’t work out what she was on about, and then we went into the bathroom . . .”

“The door to my room won’t open. I lock it with a key usually, and now it won’t open. Did somebody pick the lock or something? I had cash in there. . . .”

“Ok, I’m done. You can take him down now,” Maria shouted hoarsely from the bathroom. Then she rushed out and into the toilet next door and bent over the bowl. Her throat spasmed. She fought back the vomit and queasiness. She tried to cover the noise of her retching with flushing and coughing and by rattling the seat, but it was hopeless. She stood, tried to calm her breathing, and wiped away the tears and sweat with toilet paper. The room felt tight and hot. It smelled of air freshener and faeces. These poor people. There he is, a member of the family, hanging from the wall in the next room, but still they had to use the toilet. And then at last, she threw up.

Bloody letter.

She couldn’t get through to the washbasin in the bathroom, so she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and exited the flat. She sat on a step on the stairwell. The dead man’s brother was out on the landing, smoking restlessly, shifting from one foot to another. She asked for a cigarette and a lighter, and sparked up. The elevator engine whirred—somebody was coming up.

She craved a coffee, her heart pounded in her chest. What was happening to her? What did she have for breakfast? The elevator doors slid open and the hearse driver came out with an assistant. They greeted her and went through to collect the body. Maria patted her pockets. The folded letter was waiting.

I recalled my first childhood nightmare today. I was a prince. A little boy in bright trousers, a funny little skullcap, and shoes with curled toes. In a dark room with peeling walls, I opened a treasure chest and in the bottomless murk I saw a face. It was the face of God, I knew it. In horror, I reeled back, but the darkness pulled me in. I fled, but the road curved under my feet and took me back to the starting point. When I was a child, I had a sure method of waking from nightmares: I’d squeeze my eyes tight shut and then sharply open them again. But the technique wasn’t working in this dream. As much as I tried to close my eyes, they stayed open.