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moves on from everything. The world is a heartless murderer. It does not stop. Tabitha’s parents have probably stopped. They will feel very guilty about everything for a long while to come. Every time Mrs Mowai reaches for her Rampant Rabbit, she will see her daughter’s face and drown beneath waves of guilt and sadness.
    There is a picture in the newspaper of what the girl looked like before she was murdered. The girl had big, oak eyes. I realise that Keith must have murdered her because there probably aren’t many murderers in this town. I write her name on my arm. It will be useful later.
    I go back upstairs and turn on the computer. The carpet feels reassuring between my toes. Abby was not at the memorial so her parents must have received my letter and grounded her. This means that it is time to send the email.
    I click ‘send’ and recline in my chair. Abby Hall is a Great Dane I feel disinclined to feed or exercise. I am experiencing ‘buyer’s remorse’.
    Although I did glimpse Abby itching her groin, I cannot be certain that she has pubic lice. I did not catch pubic lice from Abby and I did not shave my pubic hair or visit my GP. I felt guilty that Abby was experiencing so much misfortune and supposed that it might do her good to know that others were suffering.
    Time for more tea. Tea contains theanine, which keeps you alert yet relaxed. I am reading this off the box of teabags.
    The doorbell whistles its melancholy drone as the kettle boils. Because neither Mum nor Keith are available, the responsibility of answering doors and telephones falls to me. Sometimes, when swimming in ponds of loneliness, this duty becomes therapeutic.
    â€˜Good morning. Have you accepted God into your life?’
    I blink and stare at the man.
    â€˜This sounds serious,’ I say. ‘You had best come in.’
    The man is in his early thirties. He has cropped blond hair, combed tight against the contours of his skull. Two Bondi blue eyes and a well-fitted suit mean that my internal monologue is encouraging a trusting attitude.
    He agrees to a sugarless tea and we adopt positions on adjacent sofas.
    â€˜Are you currently in a relationship with God?’ the man asks.
    He has a gentle, flutey voice. I feel like I can trust him. I hope he doesn’t abuse my trust.
    â€˜I suffer from anxiety disorders, which means that maintaining stable relationships is difficult.’
    â€˜Jehovah loves you, however you are’.
    He sips tea from my Harry Potter mug and passes over a copy of Watchtower .
    Jehovah’s Witnesses believe that, following a cataclysmic end-time battle, 144,000 people will ascend to Heaven. They have dubbed this spiritual bourgeoisie the ‘little flock’. Jehovah’s Witnesses do not believe in Hell. These are the only facts about Jehovah’s Witnesses that interest me.
    Keith calls them ‘God-botherers’.
    â€˜How many people do you believe will go to Heaven?’ I say.
    He looks at me, then into his grey tea, then back at me again.
    â€˜A select few.’
    â€˜But how many exactly. ’
    I am not being pedantic, I am probing.
    â€˜A hundred and forty-four thousand,’ he says.
    I think he is ashamed. We observe each other.
    â€˜There are six-point-seven billion people in the world,’ I tell him. He nods. ‘That makes me feel sad. Would you like a cigarette?’
    â€˜We do not use tobacco.’
    Cults are so oppressive. Except for the Manson Family. They got to try lots of exciting things.
    I tell him to wait one second and I pull out my phone. This is the calculation I do on my phone’s calculator:
    144,000 / 6,700,000,000 = 0.000021492537313432835
    0.000021 x 100 = 0.0021
    â€˜Zero-point-zero-zero-two-one per cent of people alive now will go to Heaven,’ I say, resting my hand on his leg, then feeling uneasy and removing it.
    â€˜I think I should leave,’ he answers.
    â€˜I understand.’
    I watch