It caused a scandal when – eventually – she was found out. When the truth was unearthed, that truth, hidden deep within the catacombs beneath her apartment block. A modern day Fagan, turning loose her tribe into the streets in the night, no longer hidden in that twisted jungle of sewage pipes and electrical cables. Count the windows, count them – three per apartment, six homes in each, towering over the cul-de-sac. Count her victims.
She lay, alone with her stories, with her flickering, temporary escape. Her serenity from this reality she had spun for herself. She lay like a monstrous spider, entrenched in the centre of her web. They eventually found her children, plundering. They were stolen at night, chained until their spirits were broken and drafted to her cause.
They came for her, after the children answered the question, “Why?” Her life they unravelled in the tabloids as she tap-danced on the end of her piece of rope.