She realizes he’s talking to her now, not the bird.

A muscular flap and a clang of metal. She can see the blood in her mind. She can’t look. And then a flurry.

‘Caz. Caz. Look.’

She comes back to the doorway.

And it’s on her desk. Dirty. Grey. Of course – it’s been in a chimney for forty-eight hours. Otherwise whole. No bleeding or visible damage. A seagull. Standing in the middle of her room. It looks at them both with its clear eye, stands its ground.

‘I need a box. The recycling box.’

She runs down the hall and he hears her empty it onto the floor, tin cans rolling away on the lino and bottles clinking.

He leans over to catch the gull. It escapes, springs onto the television. He’s stalking it, menacing it with the box. It doesn’t mean to be trapped again.

‘I think you’ll have to grab it. Like a chicken.’

He misses. It’s in the hallway.

‘Or herd it out of doors.’

He tries. It’s going the wrong way, to the flat upstairs. He grabs it. He’s got it. He runs down the stairs with it, shouting over his shoulder.

‘Out, out, out – open the doors, open the doors.’

She runs ahead of him, opens the doors. And it’s out. He’s put it down outside, on the wet front steps. The rain’s starting again, very gently. The grey gull looks doddery, looking up, to left and right, in the bright morning air. Dazzled, it looks like it’s forgotten what the world is. It puts up its head to catch water.

‘Shall I get it some water?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. No need.’

‘I’ll get it some water.’

She runs inside and upstairs. When she comes down again with a bowl, her husband is on the other side of the road.

She calls from the doorway. ‘Where’s the gull?’

He points to the gate pillar of the house opposite.

‘Is that ours?’ She’s incredulous.

‘It hopped up there.’

‘It can fly.’

‘I thought it was going to toddle under a car.’

He shakes his head at the water she’s brought. ‘It had a good drink. From the gutter.’

‘Well – whatever happens now, it’s better off there than in the chimney.’

She puts the bowl down in the front hall. She runs in to slip on her shoes and her cagoule from the coat hooks in the hallway. When she comes outdoors again he nods at her, still hugging himself tight with his Marigolds, then nods upwards. The gull is on the roof of the house opposite, partly hidden by the guttering. She runs down the steps. He walks back across the road to her. It’s now raining, not hard, but quite steadily.

She shivers. ‘It’s amazing.’ There’s rain on her face.

‘Come under the tree.’