The bread bin also houses a single green bread roll. George pokes it and powdery mould stains his finger. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a tin-foiled box of what might well be shepherd’s pie, which George has on Mondays and which Ellen makes with a fake meat called Quorn that George hates. He once read that the mould used in Quorn was developed to feed the Germans in the First World War. It’s not true, but George has never let the truth ruin an opportunity to vent his vast opinions on what is wrong with society. Every time Ellen serves him this shit, he gives her a Nazi salute. She always ignores him, and hunger wins.

He leaves the pie on the counter and picks up the letter. His glasses are on the side table along with the remote control and his pill box, which is empty because Ellen sets up his medicine on Sunday nights and she’s been dead for over a week. He opens the envelope and reads.

George,

Please make sure you eat regularly and that you take your pills. I’ve restocked them for the next three weeks. The boxes are in the bathroom cabinet and I’ve written a note on how to do it yourself when you run out. If you have any problems, that nice girl Sophie from the pharmacy can help. You can have a biscuit from the tin if you’re feeling whizzy. There’s a shepherd’s pie in the fridge that you can microwave and there’s more food in the freezer. Don’t forget to feed and walk Poppy. She needs you.

Love, Ellen

George finishes reading the note, screws it up and tosses it at the bin. He misses. The time is now 8.01 p.m. and the sky is navy blue. George shouts, ‘FUCK,’ as loudly as he can, then stomps into the kitchen to retrieve the meal. He hasn’t turned on any lights and fumbles with the tin-foil lid. When he finally prises it off, he’s hit with the sweet smell of fermentation. He drops the container on the floor by the back door, then makes his way to the laundry room, where Poppy has been impounded. Barbara still comes in to walk her twice a day and pick up the piss-stained newspaper, but she’s told him it can’t carry on much longer. He’ll have to start doing things himself.

George keeps his radio on loud enough to ignore Poppy’s crying and barking. The smell is harder, but he gave up washing a week ago, so the stench could be coming from either of them. He closed the windows when Ellen died and hasn’t opened them since.