“May I come in?” comes from the other side — a voice drawn out, soft, faintly mocking.

The sound passes through the door like a touch. It has the habit of asking permission only for the sake of appearances.

And that voice… once, for her, it was an entire sky with all the answers tucked behind it. He spoke, and the world fell into line like soldiers. He said her name as if the name didn’t belong to her at all, but to him. He could take it in his palm and turn it, like a key that fits any lock.

Back then, he was her demigod and her executioner in one. Warm as a blanket, and heavy as a concrete slab on her chest, pressing till her bones creaked, till all that was left of the body was a wet patch. He could smile in a way that made you want to believe: any moment now it’ll be all right, any moment now he’ll finally let go. But the smile always left a trace, like a fingernail on skin. Barely visible. Enough to remember. It was hard to say which was worse: when he spoke, or when he kept silent.

She hated that her body reacted faster than her head. That her heart gave a small, uneven leap. That inside her rose that filthy mix: fear, anger, disgust — and love… If she had to die for that voice, she would have. Like a loyal dog that its owner beats every day after work, and still it crawls to him, wagging its tail and licking the hand that only a moment ago smelt of the belt. To the point of retching. To humiliation. To the point where even crying feels shameful, because the tears seem to be for him, too.

“No! I want to be on my own! Go away!” Anna shouted at him.

A light chuckle came from behind the door.

“Of all people, you’re the last who should be afraid of me.” The words settled on her like a sticky film.

She closes her eyes. She has no strength left, but anger slices through the weakness.

“What did you slip me?!” Anna looked at the bottle of cola. “What did you do?!”

“Nothing much, don’t worry. Do you think I want to kill you?”

The room heaved. The table under her elbows turned into a ship about to go under. Anna dug her nails into the wood, but her fingers slid. The door opened without a knock.

She tries to rise, but her body won’t obey. Her legs are cotton-wool; her head rattles like an empty tin. Footsteps draw closer. She can’t see his face. Only a dark silhouette and a hand. Fingers touch her cheek. The forefinger taps lightly against her skin.

***

There was that unpleasant throb in her nose again. The diary page trembled in her hands. The room turned back into a mortuary. She looked at the door. A thought flickered in her head: I need to get out of here. The girl clutched the blanket to her, crushed the diary page in her fist and threw it away.

“I don’t trust idiots who can mistake the living for the dead.”

***

The night was viscous. In Hyde Park the lamplight melted in a light mist, turning into soft, murky blurs. The leaves rustled underfoot, damp after recent rain. Normal people at this hour were at home or in bars, not drifting along dark paths. These two girls didn’t fall into the ‘normal’ category. They walked, heels catching in the cracks of the pavement, laughing and chattering. Clothes: short, bright, provocative. Their make-up had run a little, but they didn’t care. One of the girls flopped onto the nearest bench, legs splayed.

The other stayed on her feet a couple of seconds more, looked around.

“I’ll call a taxi,” she began, reaching for her phone.

Her gaze snagged on something in the grass, a little further along the path. Where the circle of the lamp’s light ended, in the dim strip between the path and the bushes, something long lay stretched out.

“Look. Something’s lying there. Shall we check?”

“I’m out. I’ve got a bad feeling. What if it’s a dog? I hate running into dead animals, it upsets me.”

“Fine, sit tight. I’ll go look.”

She set her phone on the bench. She walked towards the dark shape, at first quickly, then more slowly. The grass squelched under her heel. She stopped a couple of metres away. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark, sketching the details. Hair. Pale skin. A body. Blood. Her mouth opened by itself.

The scream ripped out of her.

The one on the bench, scrabbling, dropped her phone, for a moment not knowing which way was up or down as she tried to dial emergency services.

In the cold grass, in the shimmer of the lamps, lay a woman’s body. She had died very recently. Her neck and straight white hair were slick with a sticky crimson shine.