When they came, Michael was in the room where he slept, his hands full of a pack of cards the man had given him. There was a crunch of boots against gravel and he knew, he knew immediately who it would be, and for a few dangerous seconds his eyelids flickered and his fingers went numb, suddenly close to passing out. But a sharp bark from the dog somewhere in the house acted like a slap, and instead he scrambled over to the window. A doorbell rang.

His father, a bow-legged man with thinning black hair, was standing in front of the porch, but he was alone; no red coat against the gravel, no sharp white fingers. His sister wasn’t here. Michael leaned heavily against the sill, briefly too relieved to think or move, even though he knew that if his father spotted him in the window he would be dead. And then his father vanished from view, and a door slammed.

There was some shouting. Michael thought of his mother’s body. They had left it in the lively grass, and he imagined her eyes filling up with rain water, slugs tracing their delicate dance across her yellow smock. Eventually, he became aware that the voices had grown quieter, and without thinking too closely about what he was doing, he crept out onto the landing and peered down through the bannister struts. There was the man, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were admiring a painting, and there was his father. He was wearing a dirty blue rain mac, and he looked strangely small.

Snatches of conversation drifted up the staircase toward him. You know as well as I do, and, sordid business, and better left unsaid.

Michael thought of other words: beast, dirty beast, animal, but when he looked up he saw that the dog was there, watching him.

Eventually the door slammed again, and when he looked back his father was gone. The man spoke without moving, knowing somehow that Michael would hear.

“You don’t have anything to worry about now, little wolf.”

CHAPTER

8

WHEN HEATHER STEPPED through into Nikki’s living room, she was pleased to see several bookcases rammed with books and a television so enormous it dominated one wall. The décor was soothing and pleasant and clearly chosen by someone without much interest in interior decorating. Heather paused by one small cabinet, smiling.

“I remember these from your mum’s house. Is it genetic or something?”

Nikki grimaced. The cabinet contained a little collection of pastel colored ceramic figures, including swans, shepherds, milk maids, and ladies with frothing dresses.

“Don’t. Mum buys me a new one for every birthday and every Christmas. I don’t know what to do with them. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Go on then.” She followed Nikki into the long kitchen at the back of the house, which smelled pleasingly of some recent spicy dinner. “How was school?”

“Fine, the usual dramas.” She was pouring hot water over teabags, fragrant steam filling the kitchen. “Are you ok? You sounded weird on the phone.”