The small black goat; the stone enclosure; the forked wooden altar washed in coconut milk, hung with orange and yellow marigolds; the heap of sodden sand. With a single bleat he folds himself into a shadow in the corner, nosing a red hibiscus flower onto its back and nibbling the petals. The temple bells; the drum. It is nearly time. A litre of Ganges holy water up-ended over him. He's dragged shivering to centre-stage and slotted, white-eyed, into place. On the last drumbeat, the blade separates his head from his body. The blood comes out of his neck in little gulps. The tongue and eyes are still moving in the head as the rest of him is thrown down next to it. Neither of his two parts can quite take this in. The legs go on trembling, pedalling at the dirt — slowly trying to drag the body back to its loss: the head on its side, dulling eyes fixed on this black, familiar ghost; its limbs flagging now, the machinery running down. There's some progress, but not enough, then after a couple of minutes, none at all.
