She smiles and frowns at the same time. ‘Boy who is fish?’

‘Or a fish who is a boy, or something like that. A boy’s face and a fish’s body. The face was one of the men from the party, as a boy.’

Nico is tracing the edge of her glass with her fingers.

‘What does that mean, do you think?’

‘Maybe you worry you are with baby,’ she says. And then, ‘The dream telled you that man was one time boy.’

My throat hurts like fuck. ‘What happens to them, do you think?’

Nico falls silent, staring out the window at the almost bare tree dancing like a crazed skeleton in the wind.

The washing machine beeps loudly and Nico jumps. I go to the machine, turn another knob to set the dryer, and put it on for an hour. ‘That blows hot air,’ I tell her.

She nods and shakes her head at the same time.

‘Have you finished the book? Did she escape?’

‘In book, yes, but in life it is no possible,’ she says.

‘So, in your version you had her die?’

‘Yes, chopped tiny. The man ate her.’

‘Cheery!’ I say. ‘You must be knackered.’ I yawn.

‘Tired?’

‘Yes. You must get some beauty sleep.’

She scrunches up her face. ‘Perhaps if I ugly I no be here.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say. ‘But there will be a life after here. And that face will serve you well out there.’

‘No if we are cutted up first,’ she says, trying to make a joke.

‘Come on. None of that talk. We’ll do it. We’ll get out of here. Along the way we’ll meet a decent man at one of our soirees. As soon as we do, our eyes will fill with tears and we’ll appeal to their masculine macho sides. We’ll ask them to rescue us. Or you’ll ask a man to rescue us. I’ve been thinking long and hard about this, and it’s the only way. I reckon you might just be the girl to make a man like that fall for it.’

She is studying me intently, trying to understand ‘soirees’ and ‘macho’ I imagine, and then surprises me by saying, ‘I do not think a good man would be in company of men that way,’ in her strangely precocious English.

Wise little owl really, from her backwater barnyard. I need to tell myself being rescued is a possibility, even as I know it’s an absurd comedy: a farce, or ridiculous Hollywood happy-ever-after. Although if anyone has the power to stoke compassion in a dead person’s heart, it’s Nico. I should know.

She gets up, goes over to the dryer and sticks her nose to the glass, then looks at me, throws her hands in the air in amazement, and leaves the room.