Jenny handed cash to the taxi driver and stepped out. The sight of the house gave her a trill in her stomach, like always, throwing up childhood memories. A three-storey Victorian block with low additions to the side that housed the embalming room, body fridges, coffin workshop and garage for the hearse. The funeral business she’d escaped from decades ago, only to be sucked back in six months ago when her dad died. So she was living here again, haunted by memories, haunted by the thousands of dead who’d passed through the place.

She went in the side door and through to reception, where Indy was at the desk. Hannah’s beautiful girlfriend, just one of the strays Dorothy had accumulated at the funeral home over the years. She’d turned up four years ago to arrange her parents’ funeral, wound up helping out around the place, a natural at dealing with people, Hannah included. She’d dyed her hair again since Jenny last saw her, a green that set off her dark skin.

‘Archie told me what happened,’ Jenny said.

Indy shook her head. ‘Crazy.’

‘Where’s Mum?’

Indy nodded upstairs. ‘In the ops room. She’s fine.’

Jenny headed up. The ops room was where they ran the funeral and PI businesses, but it was also their kitchen and dining room, where she’d had countless family meals. She reached the doorway and saw Dorothy at the sink, spooning cat food into a bowl.

‘Mum, Archie called me, are you OK?’

Dorothy turned and smiled, placed the bowl at her feet with one hand touching her back.

Jenny went in and stopped when she spotted the dog.

‘Who’s this?’

The collie snuffled at the food, then a couple of licks and it began eating. It looked  up between bites as if the food might be taken away.

Dorothy crouched and tickled his ear. ‘I don’t know his name, no collar.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘In the car.’

‘What?’

‘The accident this morning, you said Archie told you.’ Dorothy stood up and reached for a cupboard, took out two glasses and a half-empty bottle of Highland Park. ‘I need a drink.’

She poured two measures, handed one to Jenny, then sat at the table.

Jenny watched her movements, slow and careful. She hadn’t been the same since everything with Craig. He’d stabbed Jenny in this room, then beaten and choked Dorothy, who’d stabbed him in self-defence.

Jenny was left with a large scar on her belly and night terrors. Dorothy’s bruises took a long time to heal. Before, despite being seventy, she had energy, moved with grace. Now she was tentative, as if the world could really harm her, aware she wasn’t going to last forever. It broke Jenny’s heart to see her mum like this.

She sipped her whisky, pulled out a chair and sat, placed a hand on her mum’s. ‘What happened?’