217 Babel Street | Apartment 1
In her flat, Viv Gillis woke from her mid-afternoon doze with a start. Lycra dreams vanished.
Something was wrong. She felt it in the prickling of her scalp, in the weight in her chest, sensations that rarely lied. Something was very wrong. She was sensitive to such inconsistencies.
What had woken her so abruptly? Thunder? Wind slamming the metal and glass front door? She stood up and peered outside. A taxi was pulling away, but the light was too dim to see whether it had dropped someone, or picked up.
Lacing her boots, she shivered. The hallway was empty so started up the stairs, half expecting to find that pale latch-key whelp from number 4 lolling around, but the building seemed quiet enough.
She was reassured, until, on her way back downstairs she noticed small spots of blood on the landing outside number 8. They seemed to trail from the door downwards, but stopped after only a few steps. Again, she looked up and down, puzzling. She bent down, reached out a forefinger and dabbed it in a splotch of redness.
Still wet.
Perturbed, she returned to her flat to fetch a bucket and disinfectant.