When another large crack of thunder erupts into the room I jolt upright. The candle is now nothing more than a short stub. Wrapping a blanket around myself, I creep into the hallway, listening, but there’s no sound from upstairs, and once I’ve pulled myself together, I begin rooting through side-table drawers and kitchen cupboards, looking for another torch. When we lived on the island we had at least half a dozen. Everyone needs them as soon as darkness approaches and I know Annie must have more.

Back in the hallway I turn to a locked door, the key hanging from its lock, and as I open it I’m unable to recall if I’ve ever been inside the small box room that lies beyond. A solid wooden desk sits in its centre; around the walls bookshelves are stacked high, clutter spilling from every surface.

Before I go in I glance up the stairs, the candle in my hand threatening to burn out any minute. Placing the light on the desk, I check the drawers and scan the room, eventually finding a box on the bottom shelf of a bookcase with two torches in it.

Switching on the larger one, I’m relieved as it floods the room with bright light and am about to turn it off when I see a tray beside the box filled with photos.

The top one catches my attention. In it, a much younger Annie is looking at the camera, holding a baby. I pick up a handful of pictures, flicking to the next, one of my mum holding the same child, and as I look closer I see it is Bonnie. Their names have been scrawled on the back, dated 30 March 1976. Bonnie was less than two months old.

All the rest in my hand are of my family. More of my mum and Bonnie, a few of Danny and me as young children. I lay them to one side, about to pick up more, when a sound stops me.

Grabbing the torch, I creep to the hallway, quietly closing the door behind me, as I wait for a moment, listening again before pulling my coat off the hook. It’s not until I’m at the front door that I notice the white envelope lying on the floor. My name is slashed across its front in black capitals. I rip into it, pulling out a piece of paper.

I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE. I WON’T TELL YOU AGAIN.

I open the front door, swinging the torch frantically from side to side, but there’s no sign of anyone. I could well have missed the note when I headed straight for the box room, it could have been posted at any time during the evening but, more importantly, it means that whoever sent it not only knows I’m back, but they know where to find me.