The house would be further down, about six properties in. He could almost make out the garden. Beneath the overgrown tangle, he could picture the path, the cleared flower beds.
And he remembered that last day.
They must have become slack. When she let him in, she must have left the door unlocked. Maybe she thought he’d locked it.
And then there was another man in the bedroom. He’d been tall, angry-looking. There had been shouting, accusations. She had been sitting up, screaming at him. There was a history here.
There had been a slap. He knew it was a slap, but at the time his memories told him the man struck the woman hard. She flew to one side.
The image, the memory, took over. A large man striking a n***d, defenceless woman. In her own house. In her own bedroom. And the man was reac
