Not far from the wood’s edge, they came to a small domed building, sunk deeply into the black dirt. It had been built from red brick once, but the colors of the woods had leeched into it. Green moss and yellow lichen covered it, until it looked like a natural thing, a growth on the forest floor. There was a low padlocked door set into the front of it.

“This is an ice house,” said the man. “A lot of big old houses have them. I want you to think about your mother, lad.” He dropped his hand onto Michael’s shoulder, and Michael felt cold fear move through him like a shower of stones.

“What’s in there?”

“Your mother was not a good woman, but I imagine you know that better than most. Your whole family is …” He stopped and pushed the boy forward slightly. “But I don’t want you to remember that, lad. I want you to remember the last time you saw her. You got that? Are you listening to me, boy?”

He stepped forward, smoothing a key from his pocket, and he unlocked the door. Cold air moved across the boy’s face. It smelt brackish and strange, like water left to stand in a bucket for weeks.

“Are you thinking of it, lad? The last time you saw her?”

The boy did not move. He was remembering the odd feeling of weightlessness in his stomach as they’d fallen down the stairs, the delicious sensation of hurting that which had hurt him.

“Remember the time when you had complete power over her,” said the man. He settled his hands on Michael’s shoulders again and gently pushed him through the door of the ice house. The ground sloped away ahead of them, and Michael felt his over-sized boots moving through a gritty kind of sludge. The daylight from the door revealed a dank room, the walls smeared with creeping black mold, and it was cold, much colder than outside. There was a shape in front of them, resting on a long, low stone bench. Michael looked at it. The man squeezed his shoulder.

“Remember the power you had then, lad. Remember it.”

The shape was his mother. She looked small, curled in on herself. Her limbs were dark, as though her skin were one big bruise, and he could still see the flash of white bone poking through her arm where it had torn itself free. The yellow smock was no longer yellow. Her face was turned away from him, but he could see the jut of her jaw and her cheekbone, which looked larger than it had. He imagined her staring at the far wall, imagined her whispering into the dark. Dirty beast, filthy little shit. Michael made a small strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“No,’ said the man, firmly. “Look at what she is now. She’s nothing. Do you see?”

He pushed the boy forward sharply, so that he almost fell onto the corpse. All at once Michael was inches away from the torn flesh of his mother, her rotten fingers like small brown sticks.