And with a flip, reality came back to him, slapped him round the face. He rolled on the floor, clutching his stomach, trying not to throw up, while Boney-M danced about him, screeching with laughter, his bones rattling.

‘Oh, that’s a good one, that’s rich, that’s juicy, look at the boy, wants to be Count Dracula, but hasn’t the guts for it … Oh, that’s a picture. That’s priceless. I’ll post this one on YouTube. Oh, look at him! ROFL … Or should I say ROFP? Rolling on the floor puking, puking like the little baby bunting he is … Oh, what a day!’

It was hunger that pulled Paul back up, drove him on, took him back over to the body on the newspaper and put the knife back in his hand. His need to eat. He’d known Samira. He’d even liked her. She’d given him some medicine one time when he’d had terrible headaches. She’d been kind and thoughtful and …

‘No!’ Boney-M yelled at him, setting his teeth on edge. ‘Not kind. Not thoughtful. She was a pig. They all hated you, remember? They killed Olivia. They killed your sister. They ate her. And laughed about it.’

‘Did they?’ Paul stopped what he was doing and closed his eyes. ‘Did they really? Are you sure I didn’t imagine it? I don’t know any more.’

‘Oh, look at him. One light snack and he’s sitting back on his fat arse, all bloated and thankful and full of the milk of human kindness. Hello, birds; hello, flowers; hello, sky; oh, isn’t it a lovely day? No more cares in the world, little pissypants. One small meal and you feel good about things, do you? Think all the bad stuff’s going to go away? What makes you think you can just pretend that things aren’t how you know they are? Nothing’s changed. You’re still going to have to kill them all. To eat them all, and shit them out and add their bones to your collection.’

‘Who says?’

‘Ooh, listen to him, getting all uppity. I SAY! You hear me? I DO! We all do. All of us.’

‘And who are you? You don’t even exist!’

‘You’ve hurt me now,’ Boney whined. ‘You’ve hurt your old friend, the only one who cares about you. You’ll make me cry.’

‘Go on then, cry. You’re not real.’

‘Oh, aren’t I? Then who’s this pecking your hand?’

Paul yelped as Boney-M jabbed his hard beak into the back of his hand. He looked down. There was a gash in it, his own blood spilling out, bright red. His knife was clutched in his other hand, the one he’d been using to cut Samira up with. There was no sign of the evil bird thing. But he’d pecked him, hadn’t he? Made him bleed.

Hadn’t he?