She was still in a floral housecoat and curlers. She screamed again. Faces appeared at windows up and down Cruden Street. Barefoot guttersnipes, anxious not to miss anything, came scampering up the terrace. “What’s happened?” The old woman, eyes wide with terror, opened her toothless mouth to scream again. “Please stop doing that. Tell me what’s wrong.” She pointed a shaking finger at her own front door then allowed herself to be comforted by a neighbour who scowled at Johnny as if the commotion were all his fault. Johnny entered the dark, low-ceilinged flat. “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” crackled out of the wireless. Mrs Turquand lived alone. There was an open box on the dining table. He pulled out its contents: a large basket filled with roses, apples and the head of a young woman. He instinctively knew it was real – and yet he couldn’t have said why or how. The lidless eyes had begun to turn milky. The bleached hair smelled as though it had been freshly shampooed and rouge had been applied to the now mottled cheeks.
