There was some shouting. Michael thought of his mother’s body. They had left it in the lively grass, and he imagined her eyes filling up with rainwater, slugs tracing their delicate dance across her yellow smock. Eventually, he became aware that the voices had grown quieter, and without thinking too closely about what he was doing, he crept out onto the landing and peered down through the bannister struts. There was the man, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were admiring a painting, and there was his father. He was wearing a dirty blue rain mac, and he looked strangely small.

Snatches of conversation drifted up the staircase towards him. You know as well as I do, and sordid business, and better left unsaid.

Michael thought of other words: beast, dirty beast, animal, but when he looked up he saw that the dog was there, watching him.

Eventually the door slammed again, and when he looked back his father was gone. The man spoke without moving, knowing somehow that Michael would hear.

‘You don’t have anything to worry about now, little wolf.’

8

When Heather stepped through into Nikki’s living room, she was pleased to see several bookcases rammed with books and a television so enormous it dominated one wall. The decor was soothing and pleasant and clearly chosen by someone without much interest in interior decorating. Heather paused by one small cabinet, smiling.

‘I remember these from your mum’s house. Is it genetic or something?’

Nikki grimaced. The cabinet contained a little collection of pastel-coloured ceramic figures, including swans, shepherds, milk maids, and ladies with frothing dresses.

‘Don’t. Mum buys me a new one for every birthday and every Christmas. I don’t know what to do with them. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Go on then.’ She followed Nikki into the long kitchen at the back of the house, which smelled pleasingly of some recent spicy dinner. ‘How was school?’

‘Fine, the usual dramas.’ She was pouring hot water over teabags, fragrant steam filling the kitchen. ‘Are you okay? You sounded weird on the phone.’

Heather opened her satchel and pulled out the biscuit tin. Now that she knew what was inside, it felt heavier, like she was carrying around a severed head rather than a bunch of letters. She opened the lid, already looking at the scrabbly handwriting with a sense of dread.

‘I found these letters in Mum’s attic, under a pile of old records.’

‘Letters? What sort of letters?’

‘Well, I … Maybe it’s better if you just have a look.’

Nikki took the proffered bundle and began reading. Heather watched her face. As Nikki’s brows drew together in an expression of confusion, Heather got up and finished making the tea. When she came back to where Nikki stood at the worktop, her friend was holding the paper in her hand as if it might bite her.

‘Is this what I think it is?’