The novel is a fine example of a country house mystery.
Somewhere between leaving the back of her car and reaching mine, the wind blew and radioactive debris funneled around me. Brutal, it dug through my eyes and left hollows. My arms grew like weeds. My tongue, standing parallel to the roof of my mouth, insulted its surroundings, praising, instead, the idea of foreign saliva. In a state of tranquility, I found myself emptying rolls of 2-ply paper into my empty bathtub and leaving breadcrumb trails leading momentarily to some life secret. A pocket-watch was placed in my (now-vacant) head and I was distracted– I could feel the minutes tick as my scorched irises watched the veins in my wrists pump blood from my mouth; diluting toilet-water and staining my chin. There is a hangnail on my right index finger and it curved threateningly toward my heart.
I lied dead in my laundry basket; and I could tell the birds were picking away my mess.
I should have closed the back door.
“Are you away? Or awake?” the crocodile asked the captain; the puppies asked the boys.
I’ve never understood the term “overactive imagination”.