He went to the window and looked out on to drab backyards of poor little houses, shrugged, turned and sat in a wicker armchair. It creaked and sagged. He leaned back with his eyes closed. A piece of broken wicker scratched his neck and he shifted his position.

He sat still for ten minutes. Downstairs a door banged; outside a dog began to bark. Before that letter had come the noises would have made him jump; now he was numb.

He opened his eyes and stared at the door; he had been sitting here when the envelope had been thrust beneath it.

He had heard no sound until a faint rustling had made him look up. Every nerve in his body had become taut as he’d seen first the corner, then the whole envelope. Whoever had brought it had flipped it smartly when half of it was inside, making it hit sharply against the edge of the carpet.

The messenger had crept away as silently as he had come.

Clutched by the now-familiar choking fear, Mellor had gone to the door and unlocked it stealthily, opened it and peered out on to an empty landing and an empty staircase. Then he had returned, picked up the letter and ripped it open . . .

Now he wasn’t so frightened because he knew what to do. He had been planning every detail while sitting and thinking. The door and the window would have to be blocked somehow, to prevent air coming in and gas escaping, thus warning others in the house before he was dead. The ideal thing would be cotton-wool or gummed paper but he had neither. A sheet or his pyjamas, torn into small strips, would serve; but that would be a laborious job and he had little patience left.

He got up and went to the bed, pulled the grubby pillowcase off and punched the hard pillow. It wasn’t made of feathers. He took out his penknife, slit the ticking and pulled out some dirty-looking grey flock.

That would do!

He grabbed a handful of flock—and nicked his finger with the knife. He stood rigid, looking at the tiny red globule that oozed up.