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The naked man was banging at their door, with wet bloody impacts.

“Is he one of Mr Conway’s?” asked Connie.

Jed murmured.

They could discern the vague outline of the bleeding man through the frosted glass. He was leaving red palm prints on the glass. Warm soapy water, thought Jed.

They watched through the window as the man stumbled back down their path, into the main drive of the cul de sac, screaming himself hoarse, screaming for help. Mr Conway’s door was kicked almost off its hinges.

“He’ll need to borrow your drill for that,” said Connie.

“Already has,” said Jed, pointing to a bleeding hole in the naked man’s back. Across the road they could see the Sainsburys at their window, the Kelleners too, and the Batterbees.

“He’ll be keeping us all up tonight with that racket,” said Connie tutting.

“Nope, there’s Mr Conway now,” said Jed, pointing at the aproned figure of Mr Conway, emerging from his front door, dragging behind him a long length of chain.

“Are you not going to tend to the prints now?” asked Connie as Jed followed her up to bed.

“Tomorrow,” whispered Jed. “Tomorrow.”

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