It’s too late for the children. I can feel it. Goosebumps ripple along my arms, tugging the hairs on my skin to attention as the icy breeze brushes past me, laying cold clammy hands on the bare skin of my feet. I think if I breathe out, I will see my breath in front of me in plumes of smoky grey, swirling ghostly clouds to watch over me as I do the unthinkable. My bare feet are numb as I take another step along the staircase, sliding my hand along the pitted, rough plaster of the walls. Glancing down I see the ragged edges of my shirt, greying and pilled, and I pause to pull the sleeves further down over my hands, trying to stop the chill that embraces my skin. The fabric is too thin, too worn. I’m so cold. I feel as if I have forgotten what it is to feel the heat of the sun on my body. I let myself remember, just for a second, the feel of warm sun on my face, the sweat collecting at the base of my neck as it beats down overhead, before shaking it away. I have a job to do. I can see into the room at the top of the stairs, the moonlight that puddles on the landing casting an eerie silver glow. I can see the slight hump in the bed, the blanket that drapes over the foot, the fronds of her dark hair that spill across the pillow. The blue knit of the wool, the fraying-edge ribbon picked out by the thin light that illuminates the room, trickling in from the open landing.

I stop, a rabbit on red alert, my ears pricking. Is there someone else here? I thought I was alone; I need to be alone in order to do this. My muscles ache as I hold my position, listening, but there is only silence. I strain my ears, sure that there should be some noise, someone else in the house, convinced I heard a door somewhere, the creak of a hinge, but nothing. Just the faint breaths coming from the room ahead of me. I know, without really knowing, that it is just them and me in the house, and no one is going to disturb me. No one is going to stop me, not if I act fast.