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What I was sent to do, Shan, my dear. The artist turned to her workstation and threw the brush down. Her other implements had been arranged the moment she had entered the art room. Neat, tidy, ordered. Colours arranged by group; brushes lined up in ascending size. Just one thing missing. She dug into her pocket and placed the four pieces of paper beside her pallet. The correct instruments, inspiration, and blank piece of canvas ready for the truth. Derrick, hand me the radio, Im calling all this in …, It is a matter of duty, I agree. But Ariah will be with us in a matter of days. We cannot leave until then. And with her blessings we will be stronger. He lets himself in through the low, wrought-iron gate, slipping in to the long front garden as it swings open and clangs against the stone wall that circles the pleasant-looking house. Its Victorian, looks to Rowan to be as sturdy and unmoving as Her Majesty herself. Six big sash windows surround a black-lacquered front door. Proper iron gutters criss-cross a dark series of lines across the houses big stone face. Peeping out at the rear of the property are two brick outbuildings with faded white front doors. Neither looks locked, or particularly sturdy. Checking behind him, Rowan quickens his pace and steps from the path to the long, soggy grass, cursing as he crosses nimbly around the front of the property and scurries on towards the rear. He glances at the darkened downstairs window. Sees the vague outline of a standard lamp, a mirror, the back of large TV. Through the rain, almost slipping, he runs to the first outbuilding and uses his boot to pull at the unlocked door. He looks inside – a big white tank in one dusty corner and a complicated series of pipes and fuse boxes at the other. Boiler room. He spots a small white box on the dusty wall to his right and looks at the gauge. The tank is showing as empty. Rowan, shivering, manages to fumble his phone from the pocket of the coat. 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The floor is broken up and dirty, a mulch of old papers and glistening black plastic piled in one corner. He changes the angle of the torch. There’s a rocking chair set back in the furthest recess: spindle-limbed and ribboned with cobwebs. In front, a fire sunk into the ground – ashes turnedto dusts. He lets the light linger there for a moment, straining his eyes. Slowly he turns the beam. The chair is angled to face a bare wall. It has been painted white, and Rowan has a sudden fanciful notion that perhaps this is where Violet comes to project movies. He tries to picture her in the chair, feet on the lip of the fire-pit, watching old films flickering on the bare brick. He can’t imagine why she would. Can’t think why she … Alyssa shook from head to foot. What ammo has he found? 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The rich and salty stench from the used cooking fat tasted sweet on the air, barely masking the reek of rotting meat. Samara pressed the back of her hand across her mouth and closed her eyes, forcing herself to overcome her rising nausea. Her eyes were useless, swamped in shadow and blurring further with every step. She managed to reach the corner of the building before flopping down to the grimy cobbles, her legs collapsing under the sudden weight of her body. Slumped against the wall, she grimaced in the shadows and plucked the bottle free of her pocket. Samara focussed on the cap to unscrew it, and took a short, sharp drink of the foul liquid. She winced and sucked in a harsh breath through her teeth. Replacing the bottle, she tried to wash the vodka down with a cigarette. Her packet came up empty. She flung it across the alleyway and fell back against the wall. Yes, and his voice was just as terrible. Part of him wept inside. It didnt matter anymore. 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