Dora walked out of the room, back down the attic stairs. The bedroom was on the right, its door open. The red flock wallpaper still lined the walls and the burgundy velvet curtains festooned the windows. They had faded along the edges and moths had eaten holes in the pile. Net curtains hung close to the glass, yellowed by the sun, greyed by the dust. The fireguard with its folksy scene had gone and the fireplace had been fitted with a gas fire. Dora turned on the valve. The gas had been switched off. The Persian rug with its cobalt and ruby florets and scrolls that she’d stared at each night had been replaced with a mass of swirling green and orange Wilton medallions. She stood with her back to the marble mantelpiece, could see again the brocade sofa, the console table with its crystal decanter of scotch, the large double bed.

And lying on the bed, Maximilian List, one hand behind his head, the other beckoning her close. Smiling, I was too hard on you. Come, see how I can make it up to you. Dora stepped forward. Will you make love with me, Dora? Like you cared? Stopped.

‘No.’ She stared at the bed, but List had evaporated. She pulled at the mattress until it slid off the frame and buckled on the floor.

‘What did you do to me?’ He was nothing but bone and tissue.

‘What hold did you have over me?’ Skin and scales, a deadly reptile. ‘I am free.’ Dora kicked the mattress, over and over. ‘Do you understand? You have no power over me. Not now. Not anymore.’

She walked over to the window. Her heart was racing, galloping hooves that thundered on her breast and kneaded her belly. Her fingers were boneless, out of control. She struck a match and held the flame against the net curtains. Another match, to the dusty velvet drapes. Another, to the next window. Three in all. Out of this room, across the hall. Six matches, two for each window. Down the stairs, into the bar. Nets were everywhere, the English obsession with secrecy. Flamed. The bar had the same swirling carpet as the bedrooms, but it had worn by the door, exposing its weft. It took seven matches.

Fire purified, cleansed. Fire was glorious, divine. Hadn’t God revealed himself to Moses in a burning bush? Consumed Aaron’s sacrifice in flames? Struck Elijah with fire? Lightning now. That was vengeance from the Lord. God didn’t exist, but justice did, and righteousness, and wrath. There was nothing wrong with fire. Dora’s fingers had traces of carbon from the matches. Phosphorus. Sulphur. Didn’t the Christians believe that was hell? Fire and brimstone. Same difference.