They can appear at any time. Figures step from the walls, calling to her. She answers the call. She converses with them. ‘Can’t you hear them?’ she asks. ‘Can’t you see them?’ They accuse her husband. They tell her he is complicit. They compel her to attack him in order to defend herself. She heeds their warnings. The voices pursue her. They are everywhere: in the lounge and kitchen, the laundry, in the narrow passage and the three rooms that run off it. In her eyes, the walls are naked and gleaming. The linoleum floors are cracked and worn, and the under-cloth is exposed in brown blotches. No matter how many times she dusts and cleans, the gloom keeps returning. She is losing control. All appears distorted: the house trembles on its foundations, the furniture strains at its moorings. All is stretched to the point of snapping. The children are petrified. Weeping. She looks at them, dazed. She wants to protect them. She would fight to the death to defend them. Can’t they see this?
