The blood (let’s not kid ourselves, we knew it was blood from the start) is thrown from a central point, somewhere just beyond our field of view. Deep red near the point of origin, flashing brighter at the edges. The picture moves down again and we get our first view of something solid; a thick, blackish substance that looks like tar, though we know it is organic matter. So much blood now that the carpet is saturated. It glistens. And there is more organic matter; something grey and fatty. We are shown more; one shocking shard of white that can only be a splinter of bone.

We all seem to notice the next detail at the same time because the silence is broken by a collective intake of breath. There is a hair. Long and fine. We cannot tell its colour because of the blood. The presence of this hair deeply troubles us. Why this hair seems more disturbing than anything else is hard to tell. Perhaps it makes the blood real.

There is a moment to wonder if this is a dream, or some kind of collective hallucination- god knows we’ve been cooped up so long together it would make sense for us to finally flip out. We look again to our friends, to see our own shock reflected on their faces. 

Sudden movement captures our attention again; the picture rapidly zooms out, and it shows us everything.

She used to be an angel, we can see that much. Surrounded by a halo of gore, the little girl has cherubic proportions – chubby limbs, small body, such tiny plump fingers. She is wearing what looks to be a school uniform; a pleated skirt, a blouse that used to be white. She could be four years old, or six, or seven. There is nothing left of her face. The ejected blood and bone and gristle radiate from the place where her head should be. At her shoulders is a raw mess of tissue like shredded meat.

We need some time to compose ourselves (someone close to us, possibly the boy, possibly Clara, is quietly sobbing) but no time is granted. As soon as we think of her pain, her poor little- as soon as these thoughts occur, we see movement.

There is a shadow in this picture, and it moves. It is perhaps not surprising that we didn’t see it before, but now that we do, it seems so obvious. We can see his shadow, can see it moving with his every ragged breath. And then we see him. Lank hair, broad shoulders, his rough hands dripping with blood. He moves closer and his shadow falls upon her.

Our perspective moves swiftly to get a close-up of his face, but some darkness obscures it from us. We get the vague impression of his features, nothing else. High forehead, blunt cheekbones. Eyes that reflect no light.

Before the picture leaves us, there is one thing more. Right on cue, sound fades in. It is another dimension and it startles us, although it consists of perfectly ordinary sounds; ambient street-noise, light rain against windows, a distant fox calling to the night. And something else, a constant tone that we don’t recognise straight away. And his laboured breathing on top. We hear the metallic rasp of him zipping up his fly.

“My angel,” he says, and the darkness returns.

Surely darkness is the absence of hope.