She tried to say something, to scream or beg for help, but blood bubbled in her windpipe, dribbling out of the corners of her mouth like juice from overripe fruit when the knife slides in.

Whatshappeningwhatshappeninghurtsithurtssaraisherecall policephone

The pain kicked up several notches.

Mrs Carter writhed, trying to escape herself and the burn of multiple stab wounds, but she was too badly injured for the movement to do much except accelerate the speed of her blood loss.

The life had leaked from Richard Carter in three minutes and fifty-six seconds. It took his wife longer to die.

43

Something wet touches my feet.

A dark and gleaming puddle is seeping under the bedroom door. It blooms across the landing carpet, a scarlet flower in the most unexpected of places.

The human instinct for self-preservation stops me from screaming, even though I want to. I stuff a hand into my mouth to stop it from spilling out, but I can feel it rising up from my stomach, through my chest and into my throat.

An eye to the crack of the door again.

Dr Carter is slumped over the edge of the mattress, a hole in the side of his neck. A drip-drip sound is coming from him. A word blazes in my mind. Blood. It hits the whitewashed floorboards with a delicate splash.

Mrs Carter is lying on the other side of the bed, a mess of subcutaneous fat, tissue and exposed bone, her fingers trailing against the floor.

The Carter sisters, white-haired and spattered with bodily matter, stand at the foot of the bed like avenging angels, a pair of bloodied kitchen scissors in Sara’s hand.

Shannon, in her daisy-print pyjamas, is pale and silent, as still as a marble statue.

In shock, I stumble against the bedroom door, which widens and betrays me with a creak. Sara lowers the scissors and looks up. Across the broken bodies and the smell of rusty pipes, our eyes lock.

She takes a step towards me.

A moan slides from somewhere inside, and I back away, across the landing and into the main bathroom.

Slide the lock across the door.

Crawl across the tiles to the toilet.

Throw up until my stomach is an empty space.

Our sink is cemented with toothpaste but the Carters’ is clean and as dry as bone. Crying and shaking, I splash my face and take long swallows from the tap.

Someone rattles the door handle. Says my name. It’s Sara. Not shouting, but speaking, explaining, words tumbling from her like gifts. She asks me to unlock the door but I refuse. Her voice is soft and apologetic.

I fall backwards into the shower cubicle and slide the glass doors around me, as if that might afford me protection. Make myself as small as possible. Whisper the daily prayer we learned during the first term at school because there’s comfort in the ebb and flow of the words.