They dress themselves – grey tights and a grey rollneck for her child, a grey balaclava with ears and a grey tail. Whiskers and a black nose painted on. For herself, a dress from the back of the wardrobe, crushed velvet, cool to the touch, shiny and liquid, the colour of blackberry juice, and a sugar paper hat. Quick look in the bathroom mirror, cabinet flashing as she shuts it.

She opens the front door (its shadow arcs across the threshold) and turns the porch light on, outside air brushing her arms, a tremor of hairs, a hint of tobacco on the breeze. She turns it up to its brightest yellow.

Back in the dim room the chimney breast casts a pall. She flicks the light on and starts to dress the window.

Places joss cones – cypress and cedarwood – in a small china dish. Fetches matches, strikes one and dips the flame so it touches them; they catch and burn out and glow, filling the window with indigo smoke as well as light.

The cauldron with its fruit and coins left ready in the hallway. The pumpkin, with its manic goblin visage, centred on the sill. Checks the display from outside. Steps backward and glances down the road: the vista hazy, vaporous, indistinct. Bites into an apple. Holds it in her teeth while she adjusts the bats, rechecks. Snaps off the overhead light in the room and sees the forms of moths on the glass, inside and outside, drawn to the beacon.

Her child creeps closer now and she can feel the warmth drift onto her, arms round her neck. Perfume and grit of the incense. She leans back into the arms and her eyelids flutter closed for a moment, willing sleep.

A smoky grey cat jumps onto the sill, eyes glowing at the window, the knock of its nose on the glass and the whiskers bending. Eyes them suspiciously a while, then jumps down into the dark behind the bins.