Mrs Fenshaw gave a little scream when Jasfoup opened the door. Partly her scream was because of the mess, which she was attempting to force down the drain with the aid of a loofah, but mostly Harold suspected it was because she was stark naked.
At least he'd been right about the strength of the shower's horizontal jets. Despite the steam filling the room and occluding much of what might have given the sight an 18 rating, the jets had very obviously stripped much of the flesh from Mrs Fenshaw's frame to leave it in congealed lumps and strips of skin clogging the drain. Harold felt a momentary pang of pity for whoever might have to clean up after them and, indeed, for whoever might find the old lady's body, assuming they managed to alter its state from 'animate dead' to 'inanimate corpse.'
On the plus side, Jasfoup had turned white, his suit turning from a sophisticated grey (though only one shade) to a delicate off white (he particularly liked the tie-dye effect on the trouser bottoms) and his leathers wings changing shape to become the traditional feathered angels'.
She slid out of the shower, no longer ashamed either of the nakedness nor of the strips of flesh and intestines on the shower floor. Her voice was reedy, every exhale speckled with drops of vile black blood. “Have you come to take me to Heaven?”
Jasfoup side-stepped a direct replay. “Are you ready?”
She nodded toward the mess on the shower floor. “I think I was ready a couple of hours ago.”