Celia had an early appointment in the town and was taking Helena to the station there. Georgie and Cass – both barefoot in Victorian-looking white nightdresses – and Stephen and Nick came out to the yard to wave her off. Stephen felt himself flush as he bent down to kiss her briefly on the lips. He’d never kissed Helena in front of the Clarkes before and although he knew they knew, it felt suddenly exposing. The prospect of the day ahead felt flat to him, after she’d gone. He hadn’t realized the extent to which he’d come to depend upon her, the warmth of her attention that was reserved for her nightly visits to him. It was that, as much as the sex. The feeling of somebody especially liking you. He suddenly felt very far from his family. The Clarkes were great – amazing, really – but they were unpredictable. He found himself, for the first time, missing the quiet routine of his own home.

Routine. That was the thing. Once the car was out of sight down the lane and the girls had padded back into the house, he turned towards the walled garden and the hen-coop. He liked the quiet gurgling of the hens in the mornings, the warmth of the bedding where they’d sat, the satisfying weight of an egg cupped in the palm of your hand, as if it was designed for no other purpose.

He knew there was something wrong as soon as he saw the trail of sticky feathers, leading from the enclosure towards the trees beyond. There was a quality to the silence which wasn’t right. Inside the coop there were feathers everywhere, as if someone had emptied a pillow; so many feathers that it took him a few moments to understand that the birds weren’t moving. Couldn’t move, because their heads had been bitten off and discarded, as carelessly as sweet-wrappers. And then he saw a living eye surveying him. In one corner was a little black and white speckled bantam, still alive.

Perhaps the predator had been disturbed before the orgy of killing was complete, or perhaps it had missed the bird in the frenzy of it.

The living bird upset him more than the dead ones. He felt his throat constrict, tears come to his eyes. The poor little bird must’ve been so terrified. He approached, moving as slowly and un-jerkily as he could so as not to frighten it more, and managed to pick it up and cradle it under his arm as Celia had taught him to, holding its legs in his hand. He could feel its heart beating against the soft skin of his forearm as he took it away from the carnage and out into the light morning.