The cracked lightshade cast a murky glow on to Lottie's head.

She raised her hand to steady the brush as it slid down the body of lustrous black hair, before sweeping the loose strands back over her shoulders. She reached tentatively for the lipstick, then dropped it onto the dressing-table scattered with cheap cosmetics. Instead her fingers oozed out a cold-cream tub and worked the cooling touch into her face, rubbing circles which pulled at her skin and distorted the shape of her kohl-lined eyes. They flicked up to catch herself in the mirror, a cramped form shrouded by the half-lit gloom. With an eager twist of the lipstick-case, she leaned towards her reflection and stretched her lips in readiness with a tightened smile, reaching in close as though yearning for a kiss. Her hand halted sharply at the sudden sound of a footstep outside the door. She froze in that huddle - bent forward on her knees with mouth agape - and let her big eyes crash around to place the sound. The skin drew tight around her bony white knuckle, a tremble in her fingertips producing a blemish on her lips.

The returning silence resumed her preparation - the ritual of her final night - and her face regained shape with a messed-up rosiness. She straightened up and stared at the unholy figure before her; the hair too bright, the face too rough, the eyes glazed over without remorse.

An hour later she was dressed.

Ready for Lawrence to come and kill her.