Was Clifford angry with … with Alys now for some reason? Was he up to speed on the whole …?

Oh God! Did they really have relations? Really and truly? Not that … not that I had any particular reason to doubt the trustworthiness of Mrs Meadows’s account of the situation …

‘Forget it.’ Clifford grimaced.

‘But how did …?’ I started off.

‘I should probably just grab a mop and get started on all the mess inside,’ he said.

‘I can do that,’ I insisted, before adding, ‘I just need to try and … The dog was dead, you say, but then you were in the kitchen with Shimmy …’

‘He’d developed cramps,’ Clifford reiterated (this was the second time, now. And still no eye contact), ‘Shimmy had. He was upset. And we were soaking his feet in some icy water when the dog padded into the kitchen from the garden and tried to shove his head into the bowl.’

‘Just padded into the kitchen!’ I echoed.

(Mrs Meadows wouldn’t have any reason to lie about … about … you know … surely?)

‘Shimmy pushed him away – almost without thinking – so he trotted through to the hallway and lay down in front of the door.’

‘He wasn’t in any kind of … of …?’ I stuttered.

‘No. No, he seemed fine. But I phoned the vet anyway. He turned up after about twenty minutes, gave Rogue the quick once-over and pronounced him officially dead.’

‘It’s just all so …’

I shook my head.

Improbable.

Just like Mrs Meadows and Mr Huff!

So silly. So unedifying. So … so inappropriate.

‘The vet thought he might’ve been in some kind of diabetic coma the first time around, then slowly revived but the poor sod was already …’

‘Buried alive!’ I murmured horrified.

‘Yes.’ He smiled, grimly.

‘I can’t imagine how …’ I slowly shook my head.

‘Can’t you?’ Clifford’s grim smile turned into a mean smirk. (Yes! He smirked! Clifford Bickerton actually … actually smirked! A mean smirk!) ‘Because I sure as hell can!’

Then he looked up into the sky. ‘Be sure and write that down!’ he instructed the clouds. ‘It’s very profound, very … very metaphorical!’

I frowned over at him. He was still holding the rabbit cage. Gazing up into the sky. Shaking his giant head. Proudly. Quite majestically.

‘I would never use the word meta-meta-meta … Argh!’ he exploded, frustrated. ‘I can’t even get the damn thing out of my mouth!’

‘Are you all right, Clifford?’ I asked, taken aback.

‘What?’ Clifford yelled (still upwards), his neck spasming under his beard. ‘No plane crash? Eh? No deafening machinery? No swan attack?!’

He looked down again. This was our first real piece of eye contact since the conversation had started. His eyes were red-rimmed and furious-seeming. As if he hadn’t slept. As if he’d been crying. Then he looked back up again. ‘Are you determined to make them all think I’m completely bloody crackers?’ he demanded.