Afterwards, he climbed to the top of the block. The plastic bag beat against his thigh and spat warm liquid onto the steps. Voices echoed up from below: Nancy, the man who visited and a third he didn’t recognise. They sounded a little concerned.
It was a clear day and the streets below were almost empty. Sundays. He hated Sundays. He thought of his kitchen. He’d bought burgers for tea and now they were out defrosting on the side. The dog might have had them. He didn’t like leaving her alone, but when you were called you had to answer.
He set down the knife and emptied the bag onto the floor. Little red pieces skittered across the concrete in a dressing of slime. He stood back and fixed his hands on his hips. Piecing them together would be a chore, but a pattern would emerge. It usually did.