The door is ajar when I arrive. Dana is leaning against a wall, shivering, her coat zipped and buttoned up to the throat, her hands deep inside her sleeves. It’s a tense walk, darting along pavements, turning at every engine we hear. On top of this, there’s a cold stiffness to her that doesn’t thaw out until we get to my house and I place a cup of tea between her palms. She keeps her coat on, huddled over the curls of steam.

‘Do you want a bath?’

Dana’s flashes me an accusatory look. ‘What do you mean?’

‘To warm up. Did you think I—’

‘I don’t like baths.’ She cuts me off. ‘Why would I want to float around in my own dirt?’

‘Just thought it’d warm you up. Sorry.’

I go and fuss around in the kitchen, pull a couple of pizzas out of the freezer and rummage through the fridge for the bag of salad Mum had described in detail. Twice.

A few minutes later, Dana comes in. There’s a bit more pink in her cheeks, and her lips have lost their blue tinge. She taps her fingernails against her empty tea cup.

‘Want another one?’

‘No, thanks. Can I have a shower, please? You’re right. It’ll warm me up.’

I get fresh towels from the airing cupboard and show her where the power cord for the hot water is, then go back downstairs to turn the oven on and put the pizzas in. As I pass the door to the lounge, a sweep of headlights arcs through the front window as a car pulls into the driveway. I hear a door open and close, but the engine is still running. I recognise the deep, throaty grumble it makes.

Then comes the knock at the door.

I can’t pretend I’m not home; there’s lights on all over the house, and probably steam rising from the bathroom window that faces onto the front garden.

‘Josh, I can see you by the stairs!’ Alan’s voice confirms that I can’t hide.

When I open the door, Alan is struggling to conceal his worry.

‘Is she here?’

‘Who?’

‘Dana. Fuck, Josh, who else would I be running around town for on a Friday night?’ He’s trying to make jokes, but he keeps twitching his head back over his shoulder to the car.

‘No. Why would she be here?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe because we’ve tried everywhere else. And Carl has this strange feeling that you know something.’

As if on cue, the driver’s door opens. Carl is a silhouette behind the glare of his headlights, but no less terrifying for it. ‘Is she here?’

‘No,’ Alan and I say in unison.

‘Fucking liar. Who’s upstairs?’

‘My mum, in the shower.’

‘Where’s her car then?’