‘Maybe. But not stupid.’

‘You’re imagining things. There’s nothing going on.’

These words spoken in their bedroom across the hall. Outside, a lawnmower whining. The smell of fresh-cut grass sneaking in through the open window.

‘Are you going to tell me about her? Come on, then. I want all the gory details,’ she’d demanded, and he’d ignored her, kept buttoning his shirt under her watchful gaze, his eyes on his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

He’d tucked in his shirt, paused to run a hand through his hair, examining his hairline in the mirror. Something about that gesture had enraged her, because she was on him then like a cat, clawing at him, plucking and scratching. He felt the burn of her cigarette on the inside of his wrist as he tried to get her under control. Her arm banged on the wardrobe, the mirrored door swinging back, and he saw Mark reflected there, hiding in the hall beyond, eyes wide in his solemn face.

Anton sleeps intermittently through the day, waiting.

His throat is dry and sore. His head hurts. A sour taste in his mouth, his tongue furred and parched. The bed feels lumpy beneath him, the sheets bunched and coming away from the mattress, but he hasn’t the energy to tuck them back into place. The Mr Men wallpaper surrounds him and his eyes move over their figures, tracing the repeating pattern, the bright colours dulled with age. Years ago, he had sat in this room, reading bedtime stories to his children. The Tiger Who Came To Tea, Henny Penny, Winnie the Pooh. He sang songs to them, recited nursery rhymes. Cautionary tales couched in childish language. He wonders what lessons they learnt from them.

Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly.

’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.

Cassandra liked that one, drawn to the macabre, the delicious shudder of horror it brought to her little shoulders. Teddy bears and trains printed over her nightdress.

All so long ago.

A door opens downstairs, and he listens to the footsteps coming up the stairs – slow and deliberate. He knows it’s not her. Knows she won’t come.

Mark pushes open the door with his elbow. Anton opens his eyes, tries to sit up.

‘There,’ Mark says, putting the tray on the empty chair. Charlotte’s china, neatly arranged. Slices of cake.

He reaches behind Anton, pulls the pillows up so that they’re supporting the small of his back. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asks.

‘Tired.’

Mark takes a seat near the end of the bed. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of work in the garden,’ he says. ‘Jesus, it’s a real mess.’

‘Yes, I imagine it is.’ Anton’s head aches. He is too tired for conversation. Longs for the boy to go and leave him in peace. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’