Free Bone Machine by Martyn Waites

and vein. Count his blink rate. Shave his face, trim his sideburns with a small pair of scissors. Then, that
     done, he would begin to look beyond himself, let his eyes trail around his outline, pull focus on items with differing reflected
     depths behind his face. Look into the distance as far back as he could. If he stared long enough, he thought, another world
     might be glimpsed, a reversed world where everything was the opposite of his own; where pain was pleasure, love was hate.
    Like in Leazes Park as a boy, trying to gain the trust of a squirrel he wanted to feed and tame, he had stood, all stony and
     statuesque, expression neutral and passive, waiting for the creature to approach him. The thrill he had felt on it coming
     close, how trusting it had been to the promise of food, he could have done anything to that squirrel. Caught it and kept it,
     poisoned it, ate it. Anything. He never forgot that stillness, the power that could be derived from it. Like an American Indian
     hunting, hiding in plain view. So still as to be invisible.
    And the longer his unthreatening pose went on, the more likely it would be that the mirror-world inhabitants wouldreveal themselves. He longed for the day when they would invite him in, let him step through the mirror into that other world,
     live there for ever.
    But that world had never existed. Or if it did, he had never found it. So instead he stared at himself.
    His gaze flinched, his concentration faltered; he saw behind him the shadowed protrusions that grew from the walls behind
     him and around the bath and felt a sudden stab of loneliness. The protrusions were all over the house. Hard plastic, porcelain
     and metal. Depressing in their functionality. Prosaically clinical. Representations of capture rather than release.
    A sadness swept over him. She was gone. And all he had left were those hard reminders. Reminders of what he had lost, what
     he was conducting his experiments for. His lower lip trembled, his eyes became moist and he felt himself starting to go again.
     He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now. He needed strength. He ignored them, just stared at himself. Looked inside himself. Conquered
     his emotions.
    He smiled.
    The Historian had watched the news constantly, bought all the papers, local and national. Read them until he could almost
     recite them. They left him feeling both elated and angry. Elated because the world was witnessing his brilliance. Angry because
     it had been viewed with close-minded dullness. The police had clumped all over the graveyard, talked to the camera in reductive,
     prosaic terms about barbaric acts of savagery, witnesses, lines of enquiry and appeals for help. The journalists were no better,
     with their shock-horror headlines, mock-appalled faces and clichéd reporting. All missing the point. Ignoring what was to
     him obvious and beautiful. And important. Historically important. He felt like an artist whose masterpiece is misunderstood
     and ridiculed by those who could never hope to accomplishwhat he had. He should have expected that reaction, but he was still upset by it. Still, it was better than the last time.
     But then it should be. He had got better.
    But there was the unexpected compensation. The arrest.
    He couldn’t believe his luck. The police weren’t giving out any details, but he had assumed, from newspaper speculation, that
     it was the girl’s boyfriend.
    Michael Nell. He smiled at the irony. Then felt a sudden stab of fear.
    Michael Nell. He could say something. Do something. Mention the studio, mention the models …
    He breathed deeply, tried not to let his imagination run away from himself. Tried to be calm. Shrug the thoughts off.
    What could Nell say? What could he tell them? Nothing. Nothing that would lead the police to him directly. Nothing that would
     make them take more of an interest in him. He would be ready for them. Have a story. Play the part. Let them go away with
     nothing.
    Nothing.
    Nothing. He