‘You want to thank your sister,’ one of them said, catching his breath as he pushed Stephen down the path. ‘Do you really want to add assaulting a police officer to handling stolen goods, you bloody idiot?’

The female officer forced Lou to sit on the sofa. The police search turned to the living room. Three officers poked around behind the television, pulled books from the shelves, rifled through papers on the coffee table. The female officer told Lou to stand up, and she got to her feet. Another officer, wearing latex gloves, pulled the cushions free and rummaged down the sides. What was he hoping to find down there? A manhole cover snuggled amongst the dust and long-forgotten buttons and lost pennies? He pulled the sofa away from the wall and as he looked behind it, he smiled.

‘Boss!’ he called. The other officers huddled around him, and the officer in charge joined them. After much backslapping, he shook his head and said, ‘What kind of scrotes steal these? They’ve got no shame. No respect.’

‘They’d have melted them down. And all for a few quid,’ another said. ‘Those poor blokes would be turning in their graves.’

There was a ripple of agreement and a round of “bastards.”

Lou hovered in the corner, unnoticed. The officer tasked with unwrapping the bounty, lay out four brass plaques. Another officer took photographs of them and then they were taken away, but not before Lou had the chance to scan the list of names. She fell against the wall.

Following their search, the police made a cursory attempt to restore the house to its pre–ransacked state. The officer in charge left his card on the table and spoke to Lou, but none of his words sunk in. They closed the front door after them and silence was restored – to the house at least.

Lou looked around at the scattered sympathy cards and discarded latex gloves. Her gut told her that Stephen was telling the truth about not stealing anything; her brother was many things, but he wasn’t a thief. He had been arrested because he had carried the burden of paying for Mum’s funeral.

Lou gripped her head and sank down the wall. Behind closed eyes, the name engraved into the plaque merged with the sight of the manhole covers in the hall and the glimmer of candlelight in crystal. Music floated around her, arms held her so very close, a hand pressed into the small of her back, traces of woody cologne lingered in the air. She clutched her head tighter. How long had it been since she had danced with him? One hour? Two? The crack of gunfire and explosion of shells broke through her thoughts. Men in khaki uniform were thrown into the air like so many ragdolls. She was caught in the eye of a storm, the two lives she had lived for the last week swirling about her. With each passing minute that other life ebbed away. She wanted to seize it, to grasp it to her.