The next day was wet and blustery, but the man made him put a coat on – again too big, the bottom of it came down to his knees – and they went walking outside. The area around the house was green and isolated; Michael could see fields and hedgerows, and a tangle of dark woods. It was this that the man led him towards, their trousers quickly becoming heavy with water from the tall grass, and as they passed under the dark twisted trees, Michael shivered and blinked, feeling more awake than he had for days.

‘This is Fiddler’s Wood,’ said the man. ‘It’s ancient.’ There was a clear note of pride in his voice. ‘Primrose, wood anemone, yellow rattle, dog roses. Bluebells, in the spring. Flowers that mean a place is old, that a place is a leftover from the ice age.’ He looked down at Michael, his false eye dull. ‘You don’t care for flowers none, I expect, but that’s not what I’m going to show you.’

Not far from the wood’s edge, they came to a small domed building, sunk deeply into the black dirt. It had been built from red brick once, but the colours of the woods had leeched into it. Green moss and yellow lichen covered it, until it looked like a natural thing, a growth on the forest floor. There was a low padlocked door set into the front of it.

‘This is an ice house,’ said the man. ‘A lot of big old houses have them. I want you to think about your mother, lad.’ He dropped his hand onto Michael’s shoulder, and Michael felt cold fear move through him like a shower of stones.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Your mother was not a good woman, but I imagine you know that better than most. Your whole family is …’ He stopped and pushed the boy forward slightly. ‘But I don’t want you to remember that, lad. I want you to remember the last time you saw her. You got that? Are you listening to me, boy?’

He stepped forward, smoothing a key from his pocket, and he unlocked the door. Cold air moved across the boy’s face. It smelled brackish and strange, like water left to stand in a bucket for weeks.

‘Are you thinking of it, lad? The last time you saw her?’

The boy did not move. He was remembering the odd feeling of weightlessness in his stomach as they’d fallen down the stairs, the delicious sensation of hurting that which had hurt him.