Luke grins at that, neat white teeth inside a smile bracketed by dimples. Far more dangerous than any dog, that smile of his, Lizzie thinks idly.

‘Should he be suspicious of you, then?’ Luke asks. Before she can answer, ‘Yes,’ Maud barks again and strains at the leash. Lizzie takes this as an excuse to turn and bolt.

She stops, out of breath, at the bottom of the Beacon. Hates herself for running away. Thinks about her son. Seven. Small. Perfect. The sun shines in his heart, bright and pure. Just the thought of him warms her up, calms her down.

George

(George tries to stop time and fails)

GEORGE HAS TAKEN TO sleeping in his armchair. The bed seems too far away and the sheets smell sour. George smells sour. The whole house smells sour. The dog certainly smells sour. Barbara has stopped coming. On her last visit she dropped off twelve tins of puppy food and a pile of old newspapers. She knew better than to ask him to reimburse her. George leaves the back door open now and lets the dog do what it likes.

After a visit to the pantry and a perusal of the empty shelves that he made years ago but hasn’t looked at since (because pantries are for women), George is living on beer, tinned meat and stomach acid. He did an excellent job on those shelves. He even made tiny boxes for Ellen’s spices. Took him bloody ages. She had told him not to go to too much trouble, but he did. Of course he did.

The dog barks incessantly. George hopes it will wear itself out but, so far, no luck. He calls it all the names he can think of and it just wags its tail at him in gratitude.

He’d kick it out, set it loose, if only he had the energy. If only Ellen would stop leaving her bloody sanctimonious notes. If only Ellen would just come back. George needs his wife, like a snail needs its shell, but she’s gone and now he’s exposed to everything.

He found the second note the day he ran out of pants, which was also the day he stopped wearing them. It was in the bottom of his underwear drawer. That neat handwriting telling him how to load the washing-machine. The amount of fabric softener to use. Fabric softener! George’s hands are riddled with calluses, chunks of fingernail missing from years of sanding. Nothing about him is soft and that’s just the way he likes it.