He was looking up at the stars: eyes wide-open and shiny. The expression on his face was ecstasy. His arms were thrown wide as though he were about to hug the sky to his chest.

His brother.

For a moment the man hesitated, wondering if he should try to close the staring eyes, smooth the pale lids over the curved eyeballs. But as he looked down at his own hands they were clenched into fists and try as he might, he was unable to open his fingers.

The grass here was wet and sweet-smelling and the fragrant wisteria with its drooping white petals looked like a bride. A pleasant spot, this. He had always thought so. Turning his head slowly, he looked at the house with its smooth windows. Behind the glass panes there was only dark and quiet: the rooms not empty, but their occupants asleep. The house would be silent inside except for the secret sounds of slumber. Soft breathing, maybe the ticking of a bedside clock.

He looked back at the figure in front of him. How pale the thin face with its ecstatic, frozen eyes. How still those long limbs. Only the fine hair at the hollow of the temples moved ever so slightly in the soft breeze. But the arms flung wide seemed almost carefree, stretched out in a gesture of abandon. A wristwatch gleamed gold at the edge of a snow white cuff. Dickie boy had always had expensive tastes.

Cold. It was cold. The knees of his pants were wet where the moisture from the grass had seeped through. His arm was suddenly on fire where he touched and even in the darkness he could see the black stain of his own blood.

He got to his feet and without a backward glance he started walking. At first he walked slowly, without any haste. But as he crossed the wide, manicured lawn he stretched his stride. By the time he reached the edge of the mile-long avenue of trees, he was hurrying.

The road stretched straight ahead for what seemed like a long, long way. The moon was directly overhead. The trunks of the beech trees on both sides of him threw slim black shadows across the path in front of his feet. For a moment he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. And the house with its tall chimneystacks, its beautiful bow-fronted windows and the three pointed gables had never seemed to him more lovely. The stone walls glowing white in the light of the moon. The windows glittering darkly. A house serene and dreaming. A house at peace.

But as he watched, a light suddenly stabbed from an upstairs window. He waited, his blood rushing through his veins, thrumming inside his ears. And then yet another light --like a warning, an alarm -- turned the darkness yellow.

He started running, his footsteps loud. The wind had sprung up and the branches of the trees danced. The wind chilled the back of his neck and the sweat in his armpits felt cold. But he had almost reached the end of the avenue and he could see the elaborately curlicued ironwork of the gate in front of him.

As he curled his fingers around one of the iron bars, he thought for a terrified moment that the gate was locked. He could feel his lips drawing away from his teeth in a snarl and inside the cage of his chest were fist blows of rage and fear. But then - slowly, ponderously - the gate started to swing towards him.

He stepped through the narrow opening and turned around. In the distance the house was ablaze with light. Light was pouring from every window. Light was pouring through the front door. The door stood wide open and a long tongue of light licked across the stone steps.

A house in distress.

A house in a state of mortal sin.