The man from next door is climbing over onto her balcony.
She knows it is too late. That she is dead. No one can live this long, upside down, without air, even though the noose is very thin it is cutting into her neck.
‘What are you talking about?’
He is very agile, very young all of a sudden. She pulls at the the thread digging in.
‘You’re fine, what are you talking about, there’s nothing there.’
‘Tis, look.’ And she pulls, it is sharp as cheese wire, look at the blood.
‘There’s no blood, it’s … it’s … juice? Come here.’
Her neighbour is hugging her. She tries to tell him, ‘I thought you had gone to Sweden.’
‘You’re soaked.’
‘I haven’t seen you for months.’
Lyn hears another voice coming up from Burgage Square.
Her neighbour shouts, ‘It’s fine, she’s fine, thank you. I’ve got her.’
Her neighbour has a chipped tooth. He has a hard chest. She slips her hand inside his shirt.