‘We need to turn off the gas at the mains and then get to where the fire’s plumbed in and work from there,’ she says. ‘We need to pull the fire away from the wall without bursting the pipes.’

‘You turn the gas off and I’ll move the fire out.’

‘Be careful not to burst the pipes or we’ll have a leak.’

She goes into the hallway to find the gas tap. ‘Don’t move until I say so.’ She turns it off at the emergency valve. ‘Ready.’ She hears the casing of the fire judder out a few inches. ‘Be careful not to burst the pipes.’

‘Sweetie, I think this is going to be easier than we thought.’

More scraping of metal.

‘Mind those pipes,’ she calls, and then she hears him take a breath. ‘What? What is it?’

More scraping.

‘Caz – come in here a sec.’

‘What is it?’ She moves to the doorway.

‘Caz, it’s a gull.’

‘What?’

‘I think so. Caz, come and see. Come and check.’

She approaches, sees the letterbox-sized hole behind the fire, the flue, and inside it a face.

‘Oh no no no.’

A clear yellow eye, a yellow beak, an unmistakeable profile. Just its face, with its eye looking at them. They look back.

‘Is there anything we can feed it?’ he says doubtfully, peering through the letterbox.

‘We have to get it out.’

He wrenches the gas fire out a little more. He can’t pull it right out because the pipes will burst. The letterbox hole is cut into a piece of metal sheeting, about ten inches square. This metal square is sealed with gaffer tape. ‘How are we going to do this?’

‘We need something to catch it in, so we can get it downstairs. And you need to put something on in case it attacks you.’

They settle on a cagoule, sunglasses and a pair of Marigold gloves for him, and the Indian tablecloth to catch the gull in. It watches them, calm now: no longer moving, no longer pecking.

He kneels down by the fire. ‘The trouble is, we don’t know what state it’s in.’

He peels away a strip of the gaffer tape. The gull jumps at the sound. She wanders back into the hallway. A wave of nausea hits her. She hears the ripping of another strip and then the metal sheet being pulled away from the cavity.

Then, ‘Hello, sweetie. Alright, sweetie.’

Metallic scuffling. It won’t stay in there, won’t let him free it properly. It’s trying to squeeze its way through that tiny gap. She imagines it pressing its flesh against the unfiled edges, beads of blood appearing on its feathered breast. He’s holding out the Indian tablecloth, trying to help it. Outside the room she moans and covers her face, a taste of pennies in her mouth.

‘It’s no use flapping, sweetie.’