‘I wish you could tell me what you’re thinking,’ she said. Then added, ‘Actually don’t,’ because she didn’t want to hear how bored he was with the whole dressing-up routine. Branston had let her put bunny ears on him for Easter and angel wings last Christmas, but this was going to be a public premiere – if anyone ever appeared to take her, Toby and Branston out trick-or-treating.

Even if he could speak, Tara sensed that Branston wouldn’t have said a lot, but even so, it would feel more like a conversation than anything she was getting from her parents or her brother this evening. Toby was being particularly irritating. First of all he’d told her he didn’t want to go trick-or-treating because he had ‘better things to do’, then he’d changed his mind but refused to go along with her theme, and now he was making his own costume with a school shirt, red ink and Mum’s dressmaking scissors, which even Tara thought was a dangerous idea.

She didn’t know why Mum was letting him.

Mum was in one of her funny, glassy moods where she closed her eyes deliberately before she said anything. Her friend Diane had ‘let her down’ about taking them out tonight – ‘Not my problem, your father can do it for once!’ – and Toby had answered back so many times, and now Dad had come in an hour later than normal from his office, and Mum had shoved him into the kitchen and turned up the television. All of which was a very good reason to hurry Toby along.

‘Toby?’ Tara yelled up the stairs. ‘Toby, are you ready?’

No answer.

She glanced at the clock above the kitchen door – which was still shut – and chewed the loose skin around her thumbnail. Mum and Dad had been in there since ten past six and it was now nearly seven. The local news was nearly over; the weather forecaster was bellowing about rain. Tara didn’t care who was taking them out, but if they didn’t leave soon, it would be too late. And too wet.

What was she supposed to do? She sat on the stairs and put her arm round Branston.

‘I wish people would just talk to me,’ she whispered into his solid head.

Suddenly, the kitchen door was flung and Tara’s dad – Keith – flew out, followed by an apple. He ducked, and it crashed against the frame of the front door, knocking a family photo off the wall. The photo dropped on to the floor but amazingly, the glass didn’t smash.

‘Jesus Christ, you crazy—’ Dad started, then swivelled to see Tara standing by the door with the dog. ‘Tara. Hello, pickle.’

‘Are we going trick-or-treating?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Trick-or-treating?’

‘Mum said you’d take us. Diane’s sick,’ she added. She didn’t know what with, but Mum’s expression had made it clear she wasn’t supposed to ask.