It was morning when I woke up. I was embracing Mr Huff’s pyjamas. Which was … urgh (remember Mrs Meadows? Hugging and sniffing? Urgh. Urgh. No. I tossed them away from me – to the far end of the bed – disgusted). I had no idea what time it was, but there was a measure of activity in the sitting room – someone crashing around while emitting a strange, otherworldly wailing sound (human? Animal? Spectral? Wind-based? Mechanical?). I adjusted my clothes and plodded into the kitchen, my face marked by the pillow, my hair a crow’s nest (doesn’t matter how bad I look. Nope. Not a jot. Because I can offer it all up) half-expecting to see Mr Huff, returned from his voyaging, or Mrs Barrow setting about some arcane cleaning task, or even Sorcha Jennett performing a terrifyingly pagan-seeming pseudo-Catholic Pavee ritual. But it was none of the above. It was Clifford. It was Clifford Bickerton, his clothes, hands and beard covered in mud, his face soaked by tears, crashing around the sitting room like a partially felled tree.

‘Clifford?’

He froze to the spot. He didn’t move for a few moments. And then very slowly, very cautiously, he turned his head to stare at me.

‘Clifford?’ I repeated.

‘You were here?’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘Here? All along?!’ (Angry? Was he? Disappointed? Hard to tell.)

‘Here?’ I echoed.

‘Mrs Barrow came over to search the cottage …’ He gestured, clumsily. ‘Last night. Late. How did you …?’

‘Uh … I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘I was sitting on the front porch. Maybe she came in through the front door and I didn’t actually …’

‘I rang a dozen times. You didn’t hear the phone ringing?’

‘The phone?’

‘You didn’t hear it ringing? All night? All through the night?’

Perhaps he was angry. And disappointed.

‘I heard it ringing,’ I conceded, ‘but I didn’t think it would be …’

Clifford covered his face with his hands. He was quiet for a few moments. Then finally he said, ‘I brought over the rabbit cage. It’s outside.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ I nodded.

‘And I took Shimmy a pint of milk. But they only had skimmed left at the shop.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ I nodded again.

‘You may need to sit down.’

He motioned towards a nearby chair.

‘Why?’

I didn’t move.

‘Your bungalow fell into the sea. Last night.’

‘It fell into …?’ I echoed.

‘We all thought you were lost. Gone. Dead. All of us. They even called a priest to say a prayer over the drop. The Land, Sea and Air Rescue have been conducting a search. But you were just …’

He drew a deep breath. ‘YOU WERE JUST HERE, ALL ALONG!’ he yelled. ‘SITTING ON THE BLOODY PORCH!’

I flinched.

‘YOU IDIOTIC BLOODY COW!’ he bellowed.

I went and sat down.

‘That’s it,’ he muttered, half to himself, ‘that’s just … that’s it.’

Then he suddenly started to sneeze, very hard, very quickly, as if he was experiencing a severe allergic reaction to … well, to me I suppose. To my non-death.