It had been a bloody awful day. Paradoxically, Carol found that easier to endure than the other kind. It was what she felt she deserved. But so far this one had been particularly grim. After her abortive visit to Chris the night before, she’d driven home and blitzed the vodka bottle. She’d woken in the small hours with a raging thirst and a banging head. The pint of water she’d glugged down came straight up, along with the paracetamol she’d swallowed. She tried again, this time sipping the water, and managed to keep the painkillers down.

She’d gone back to bed, tossing and turning, sweating and cursing. Eventually accepting there would be no more sleep, she dressed in her work clothes, added a padded jacket and went outside, hoping the chill would make her feel better. A smudge of paler sky in the east took enough of an edge off the darkness for her to walk by and she set off up the field behind the barn to the skyline trees on the hill-top.

It was hard going, tufts of grass and uneven footing threatening to trip her every other step. But Carol struggled on, chest heaving, making herself suffer all the way to the top of the hill. Instead of being rewarded with a sunrise, all that dawn brought was a chilly rain and a lightening of the grey sky. By the time she got down the hill, her hair was plastered to her head and her cheeks were numb with the cold and wet.

She brewed coffee, but it only made her stomach burn and her heart race. Work was no help either. The day’s tasks were dull and repetitive, offering nothing to distract her from revisiting her disastrous encounter with Sinead. A slip of a chisel gouged a slice in the ball of her thumb, which bled madly till she packed it with medicated lint and slapped a dressing on it. After that, it just hurt like a bastard. Somehow, she dragged herself through the morning without resorting to the vodka bottle, but it was never far from her mind.

At last, she finished clearing the first section of the gallery flooring and its underpinnings. She’d created a substantial pile of timber to haul outside and add to the heap she was stacking ready for the next bonfire. She was halfway to the door with the first armful when the unexpected thump of a knock made her drop the lot with a loud clatter.

Swearing under her breath, Carol hauled the door open. George Nicholas stood on the threshold, a sheepish smile on his face. ‘I seem to have the knack of arriving at the wrong moment,’ he said, looking past her at the scatter of timber on the floor.