Terrified, Molly threw down the bloodstained cash-box and ran into the passage. From there, she found the scullery, where in a frenzy, she dabbed at the blood spots on her blouse with a wet flannel, until the spots became large, shapeless dark patches. After she had splashed clean her face and hands, she would have run from the house with never a glance back. But she could not. In spite of the fact that he had meant to ravage her, how could she leave him, not knowing whether he were alive or dead? Molly knew that if she was to leave now, her conscience would never let her rest.

Shivering with fear, she went out of the scullery, down the passage and back into the sitting-room. On hesitant feet, she came to where the figure of Mr Craig lay sprawled beside the table, the open cash-box only a short way away where she had dropped it, and its contents spilled over a wide area. Even though she was in desperate need of those silver coins that were strewn about, Molly could not bring herself to touch them. ‘Mr Craig.’ Her voice trembled in the terrible silence. She came closer, peering down at his face to see whether there was any sign of movement. There was none. Panic took hold of her. ‘Dear God, what have I done?’ she whispered into the eerie silence, and back came her own horror-stricken answer, ‘I’ve killed him. God above, I’ve killed him!’

For a long and seemingly endless moment, Molly stood there loudly sobbing, her hands spread against her throbbing temples and her disbelieving gaze fixed to the man’s pale, upturned face, with all manner of terrible thoughts raging through her. She had committed murder! There was no doubt in her own mind that she would surely hang for it. Suddenly, above all else came the thought of her children. And it was this thought that quickly sobered her. She must protect them at all cost, for they had no one but her. No one at all.

Quickly, Molly dried her eyes and composed herself. Sal was quick to notice when anything was wrong, and Molly did not want the child to suspect. She took one last look at the man who had so viciously attacked her, and still seeing no signs of life, she went quickly from the house, consoling herself with the facts that no one had seen her go there, and no one had seen her come out. He would not be found until the next day, by which time she would be long gone. But Molly knew that the awful memory of it all would never leave her, neither would the fear. These she would carry with her, wherever she went, always hiding, always the hunted.

The sound of the front door closing echoed through the house. There was no other sound. No movement – only the signs of a bitter and fierce struggle having taken place. But then, after a while, there did come a small sound, a pitiful and weak cry that became a groan. The groan subsided, and in its place emerged the sound of laughter, wicked, spiteful laughter, and amidst it, the softest of murmurs. ‘So, you reckon you’ve done for me, d’you, girlie?… Well, you just take that thought with you. And may it haunt your every waking hour, you little vixen!’