Time sits by and watches me, as if waiting for some signal to restart. I smoke a cigarette as I study the body; perfect make-up, hair styled, still dressed in the latest, expensive fashions. I wonder how long it will be before anyone discovers us here, in this desolate spot, visited by no one except for her and, occasionally, me.

The smell of the nicotine fills the small shed and I begin to hear sirens in the distance, coming closer. I wonder if anyone heard the screams.

Slowly I stand up and brush the speckles of dirt from my trousers, knowing that I now need to hurry home. Soon the police will come calling and I must be home, my apron tied and looking the proper house wife, no signs of cigarette smoke on my breath.

The perfect neighbour. I never kept up with the Joneses. I simply killed them.