I jumped backwards, my hands coming up to protect my face, shrieking like a child. Felicity’s noise was something else entirely. She gave a low, tremulous growl: the noise people make in the seconds before they die. A death rattle, they call it, and that’s the only sound I can liken it to. I felt her hands dig into my arm hard enough to draw blood. I swear I think she believed she was about to be carried away by whatever spirit had won her soul.

‘Felicity, it’s OK, it’s OK, it’s just a bird,’ I said, looking down at the sad, blood-spattered creature that was twitching on the threadbare carpet. It was brown and yellow with an eye that made me think of polished black stone. ‘It’s just a bird. A bird came through the window …’

But Felicity was scurrying down the stairs, her legs half buckling as she slithered against the bannister and dragged herself toward the front door.

‘Felicity, it’s fine, I’ll tidy up, it’s nothing …’

She pulled open the front door and ran out onto the road.

I heard a screech of brakes and then the crunch of metal hitting stone.

And then there was just the pitter-patter of the ceaseless rain.

FELICITY

Transcript 0006, recorded October 30, 2010

Noise and speed and flashes of colour. That’s what I remember. A sudden blur of red and green and a rush of air and a howling, angry screech as tyres fought for grip on the wet road. Metal hit against metal and then against brick and I was just laying there, wet and shaking and cold and watching dust rise into the sky like a volcano had erupted and not knowing whether it were a Tuesday afternoon or Christmas morning.

‘Felicity. Oh God, Felicity …’