He left his car a short distance away and walked along the deserted stretch of road to reach their street. There were lights on in the last two houses; he squeezed himself as close to the hedgerow in the shadows as possible. The middle house was lit up, both inside and out: a bright lamp outside the front door and spotlights along the driveway leading up to it. The Roman blinds were all closed, which was good; whoever lived there would have no idea he was outside.

The last house, which was the one he wanted, was also illuminated from the inside. The exterior was in complete darkness; though it had the same porch lamp, there was no bulb inside. He’d noticed that earlier when he’d jogged past, pretending to be out for a run. He never usually ran unless he had to, but today it had been a good disguise. He could see through the large lounge windows now. He crept towards the house, peeking in to see the kid lying on the floor. He was surrounded by a circle of Matchbox cars, all of them colour-coordinated. The television was on and he could see various X-Men fighting with each other on the screen. The boy turned to look at the window and he stepped back, his heart racing. Had he sensed that he was there? He hoped not as he stole around to the back of the house. If the kid had seen him he’d have run to tell his mum and she’d be on the phone to the police.

Counting to ten, he looked through the kitchen window. The woman had her back to him as she slammed the dishwasher drawer shut. The kid hadn’t come in, thankfully. She turned, not facing the window directly but enough that he had a clear view of her face. She looked tired. As if to confirm his observation, she let out a huge yawn. Then she picked up a glass full of clear liquid and ice cubes from the kitchen counter and downed it. He wondered what her spirit of choice was – gin or vodka? She went over to a batch of cupcakes sitting on a baking tray next to the cooker and lifted them up one by one, placing them onto a wire cooling rack. He liked their pirate-themed cases, with skulls and crossbones on them. It had been such a long time since he’d eaten a homemade cake; he felt his stomach rumble at the thought. His mum had been quite a good baker.

The woman left the kitchen and he had to rush back around the house to the lounge. The kid was still lying on the floor. He turned to smile at the woman as she walked in and held her hand out towards him. The boy was rubbing his eyes as he pushed himself up and grabbed her hand. It felt strange watching these two as they carried out what was probably their night-time ritual. The husband’s car wasn’t here, which could be a problem. He would need to be quick; he didn’t want to risk him coming home whilst he was in the middle of killing his family. It would be easier to take him out on his own – less risky.

He stepped away from the window next to the front door and waited for her to come and lock it. He waited and waited, but there was no sound of a key being turned or, if it was already locked, the handle being tried to double-check it. This was either a very foolish woman or one with a great sense of security. He checked out the perimeter of the house to see if there were any open windows, just in case the door was locked. There was a small window ajar on the second floor, which would make things difficult, but it was better than nothing. He sat down on a cast-iron garden chair and waited once more. He wanted to give her enough time to put the kid to bed before he made his move.

* * *

Michelle took her son upstairs and they brushed their teeth together. She tucked Arran into bed, reading him his favourite bedtime story, ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’, from the huge book of fairy tales which had belonged to her when she was a child. The pages were loose and falling out, but he wouldn’t part with it, which she thought was sweet. He was asleep before she got to the end of the story and he looked so peaceful. It was no wonder he was tired. When she cried it made her exhausted; with the amount of screaming and crying he’d done today he should probably sleep for a week. How amazing it would be if he slept in and didn’t wake her up at the crack of dawn like he usually did. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past six. Closing the book, she placed it on the small chest of drawers next to his bed, bent down and kissed his forehead. She turned off the main light but left his nightlight on because he hated the dark. She loved him so much her heart ached. Why did life have to be so hard?

Climbing into her pyjamas, she was about to turn off her bedside lamp when she heard a muffled thud. She paused to listen and see if it happened again, but it didn’t. It was probably Arran knocking something off his bed in his sleep. He had so much crap on there it amazed her that he could ever get comfortable. For once she thought how nice it would have been if Craig had been home to see how adorable their son really was. Instead he preferred to spend his time hunched over his computer at the office, probably flirting or, God forbid, doing something more with Sally from accounts. If it weren’t for the fact that he brought home a lot of money, which meant that they could afford for her not to work, then she’d have probably called it a day by now. Neither of them was particularly happy at the moment – maybe they could go for marriage counselling. She would mention it to him in the morning and see what he thought. Anything had to be worth a go to bring back the spark in their ever-so-dull marriage. Her eyes began to close and she rolled onto her side, facing away from the door. She pulled the heavy duvet over her head. That large shot of gin was a better sleep inducer than any sleeping tablet she’d ever tried.