Fire Colour One. Jenny Valentine

stench to the first floor. It smelled pretty terrible in there. At the door, my mouth dried up and all the bones in my spine started singing. I’d have run away if I could, if it wasn’t already too late. Ernest was propped on a few extra pillows in his sparse, stone-coloured bedroom, kind of sitting up when we came in. I felt white hot when I looked at him. I was half-drowning in pins and needles, top to bottom, but I didn’t take my eyes off him, not once.

      Lowell shook his hand too hard, pumping it like a man trying to get water from a dried-up well. This is his audition handshake, two-handed, the one that goes with unnerving amounts of eye contact and exposed teeth. Somebody somewhere must have told him it was a good one and he has tried, once or twice, to teach it to me. Ernest yelped a little when it started up and then he held on tight and brought the thing to a stop, like a galloping horse. Somewhere in his head I swear he was Gary Cooper, or John Wayne, just for as long as that handshake. I thought his shoulder might dislocate. I thought his arm might snap clean off.

      “Hello, old chap,” Lowell said, the country house vibe already seeping into his language. “Great to meet you.”

      He looked so healthy next to Ernest it was almost an insult. Lowell’s teeth are toilet-bowl white. His eyebrows are plucked. He has shiny Ken-doll hair, not a strand out of place. He is tanned and well moisturised, still a catch. The carcass looks good, but I’m saying inside there is nothing but air. If you punctured Lowell Baxter with a pin he would shrivel to nothing, loud and aimless like a balloon.

      Ernest didn’t speak. I guess dying people don’t much go in for small talk. It’s not that they’re more honest; I just don’t think they have the time.

      My mother stood behind Lowell, tapping her foot, and when he stepped back, she moved in, smiling too hard, like something sweet had stuck her teeth together. She bent to brush her cheek against Ernest’s and her arms slid around his neck like snakes.

      “Ernest, darling,” she drawled, the words spooling from her mouth like cold syrup. “How are you feeling?”

      She didn’t need to ask. You could see how he was. There was nothing but sickness in that room, with its drawn curtains and watering eyes and thinning skin. Ernest looked about twice his age, like if you held him up to the light, you’d see straight through.

      Hannah tried to ditch her gloating expression but it stuck to her face like the wind had changed. “I hope you’re not in too much pain,” she purred, stroking the front of his vest like a cat fixing to climb the curtains. Jesus, she was so damn obvious.