Conkers drop through their cage of glass, chandeliers of leaves dusted with spotlight. Outside is not outside and the statues, king and queen 1974, curvaceous couple and their curved child 1978, are lying nicely. Twigs on the ground, splinters of broken lance. She trips on the flex then birls head over heels into a stream. Water, Princess, sinking iron, stockingless legs and the man paddling his hands and trying to grab her back.
Fingers grasp a piece of fabric.
Now he's elbowing the current and foam magnetises around his fingers. To his suprise the froth melts leaving his skin imprinted with tiny words. Plunges his hand back in, rubs vigorously but the water is growing tattoos, scroll upon scroll curling its way towards him. So he fafs and plashes, trying to keep his camera dry. But she's gone, the water steadying, the ripples dying into a great shout of fear as he catches sight of his reflection.