Sylvie pulls open the curtains and stares. There’s nothing out there. No sky, no buildings or traffic, just white. It’s like waking up to find the world ended while you were asleep.

All that’s left on the end of the twine is the wedding ring, slicked with slime and leaf mould, and something stuck through the centre of it…

There's something not right with Stu,, everyone in the family knows it. But this time, it seems, he's gone too far.

Creamy, teardrop-shaped, delicately beautiful. Tyler reaches out to touch it, but some instinct holds him back. Then, a black blob scuttles across the web, a red flash on its abdomen, and he withdraws his fingers in a hurry. But the sac gets him thinking.

Ted can’t find the heart for any banter. He’s too busy scouring the faces, anxious, scanning for signs. He’s been on the job upward of thirty years now, and you learn what to look out for.

“They run on oil. That’s their fuel, see. But to grow, they need something a little more – heh – organic.”

“Gooooood afternoon! You’re listening to Stewie Carson on CityRadio103 and it’s a beautiful day for lovers. I’m with you for the next three hours, playing romantic tunes to get you in the mood for love…” DJ Stewie’s used to attracting attention. But this Valentine’s Day someone really wants to be noticed. And their dedication is deadly.

Through trees that reached dead winter branches to scratch her face, the cold air tearing tears from her eyes and scraping at her throat with each breath, she hurtled.

“I’m coming Sophie! Mummy’s coming!”

Then a high, child’s scream, and her foot snagged in a root, pitching her into the snow’s chill embrace.

The leaping flames threw crazed shadows on the abbey’s ruined walls, making them flicker with phantom life. The whole place gave her the creeps, but you couldn’t say that kind of thing when you were the new kid in school.

“What happened here?” she asked, half to Dylan, who was a local boy and knew such things, half to the stars spreading like a rash across the deepening night. “Why was it left to fall down?”

Dylan’s voice was low and sly with the freight of a secret. “You sure you want to know? Might scare you.”

“God help us if she ever finds out. She’s got ice where her heart should be, my wife.”

Tash downloaded the app for a laugh. At least that’s what she told herself. But things are about to become decidedly unamusing.

The match flares, spins in the air, then drops out of sight amongst the dried-out grass blades. Kenneth waits. The second is a hole in time, an exquisite torment of expectation.

Nature can be cruel. Cam’s watching the cuckoo chick in the garden do its thing when it does something altogether more cruel and horrible. Something that gets bigger and more deadly, fast.

“Go on then! Jump!” he said, and she did.

Maybe she thought he’d go after her. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe she would just have done anything, at that point, to get his attention. But there on the bridge, in her expensive, ill-fitting ballgown, with the sun just coming up over Magdalen Tower, she pushed her way through the crowd, and she jumped.

Now he’s thinking of faces covered in thick, grey liquid that washes over them like milk, smothering and slowing until it starts to harden, and the dead faces of Old Dom’s past are stone angels in a churchyard…

The drinks are flowing and the air has the kind of tension he loves: music and laughter and the hint of something about to break. He sniffs it like an animal, tasting the flavour of it, every threat and promise. He notices her the moment she walks in.

“Nah, she ain’t in today. Never is on Valentines. Can’t stand all the hearts and the lovey dovey stuff.

Debbie loves Damon.

Stacey forever.

All that shit.

Yeah, I know it’s her you wanted. Best tattoo artist in the place. Hell, best one in the whole city, even with her little impediment. Ain’t happening though. Big Mike’ll fit you in. Or Kirstin, if you can come back this afternoon. Sure, go off, have a nice meal first. Just don’t get drunk – company policy. No permanently marking the inebriated."

The last chimes ring out, ushering in January, month of Janus, the god of endings and beginnings. Betrayal and deception. I know what it is to be a man torn in two…

The sacrifice is justified, I tell myself.

Season’s Greetings, Mrs Hillier!

I bet you get loads of Christmas cards from old pupils. I doubt you even remember me. But I remember you, and the impact you had on my life.

They say you never forget a good teacher. Turns out you don’t forget the bad ones, either.