The second-floor flat at the head of the stairs, in an empty corridor, received a knock. Peter woke from a dreamless sleep and answered the door in a pair of boxer shorts. It was Neville. A smile coated his face like a clown’s make up. He was dressed in another affordable suit.

“Hello, stranger.” Peter was confused. How did this man know where he lived and what did he want? “May I come in?”

“No. What are you doing here?”

“I saw that you didn’t buy yesterday’s meeting, so I asked your sister where you lived.”

“How do you know my sister?”

“We work together. I recommended the meetings to her.”

“Neville, right?”

“Yes and I’m here to help.”

“Leave.”

He slammed the door. Too many hands have stretched out to him and too many had reached into his pocket or stabbed him in the back. Neville, the name had a sinister mix of the mundane and strange. His suit and his practised grin stank of corruption.

Peter needed to talk to his sister, but work waited. It was a slow day. The events of the past few days slowed his progress. His laptop’s screensaver had been on for a while and the last line he typed was the title: Emma was pregnant.

He wished he could write a book on the horrors of parenthood, but he was not in the business of stating the obvious. He lit his last cigarette and crumbled the pack. Maybe the baby would not be that bad. He could teach it to read and speak properly. Uncle Peter. He smiled at the prospect of having a midget sidekick. The last drag of the cigarette inspired his rise from the tomb of the mundane. He picked up his cell phone and dialled Emma.

“Hey, Em. Who is this Neville freak you set loose on me?” His tone was neutral. She pleaded ignorance and she sounded sincere. Either Emma was lying or this Neville character was more suspicious than he thought. He ended the call.

His daily walk to the store was cut short due to a heavy storm that materialised in the middle of spring. Drenched, he removed all his clothes and sat on the couch. He noted the abysmal state of his flat. He had not cleaned since Friday. He was not sure what day it was either. He went to his computer and checked his email. The website he worked for wanted an editorial piece on the wonders of the hashtag. He threw up in his mouth and checked his PayPal balance. His soul was mostly shattered, but people were still willing to buy it. He dialled Emma. He hoped he could steal a dinner from her. There was no answer. He tried her work. Nothing. He dressed quickly and drove to her house. She had to feed him if he was there.

The rain made it impossible to see the wealthy or the poor. They were all covered in heavenly wet, so they had to get along. A well-dressed elderly woman was helping a man with her umbrella. She did not notice that he stole her purse. Ignorance and all that. He arrived at Emma’s house, but did not see her car. He knocked, but the door was already slightly ajar.

He could smell something in the air. It was burnt onions. He stepped into the kitchen and immediately vomited on the counter. Emma was spread on the floor and her insides were next to her. A tiny foetus was stuffed in her mouth. She was naked. She was dead. Peter was not hungry anymore.

***

Tell us what you think: What do you think happened to Emma?