Even the estate agent tried to dissuade you.The soundproof vault, the staircases leadingto nowhere, the firebrick kiln in the basementwith the scent of a surgeon’s suitenot to mention your raccoon-eyed landlordjangling all night around the strip-lit corridorswith an ogre’s fist of keys hanging from his belt,whistling whilst stacking Sellotaped towersof meaty Tupperware into multiple chest freezersbut you said the rent was reasonable and movedstraight in. When I visited, your hair alreadysmelt of formaldehyde and something elseunplaceable but you said you ‘quite liked it’plus, the police had ‘found nothing.’ And when Iasked why a house needed twenty-seven chimneys,you just blinked and accused me of ‘being dramatic.’After a while you stopped entertaining guests.When I knocked, you slid the chain, claimingto be towel-wrapped and fresh from the showeralthough twice I saw your shoe in the doorand when I’d shout through the letterbox‘Sweetheart. Please. You’re living in a murder house!’you’d simply reply, ‘Then why aren’t I dead?’and pad softly away on your transparent legs.