A knock, a lock and a deal.


The plate in my hand has barely touched the cupboard shelf, the dirty water is draining with a gurgle from the sink. My freshly poured wine (left over from making risotto – just enough and not worth leaving) is still spiralling and settling in the glass. Radio 4 is being interesting about the 2011 riots and I am listening, honestly, whilst also chatting on Facebook with Helen between trips to the kitchen.

Under the other noises, I hear a soft, slow knock at the door, but it could be on the wall or the ceiling. Odd, but not something I feel I should pay any attention to.
A minute later, again. Slow. Steady. Oddly gentle. And not on the door.
With a slight shiver, I ignore it.
Two minutes later it comes again. Slower and louder, the knocks more forceful, but strange. Somehow I know it is not a hand…

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