She wanders off, wafting the duster. ‘I should telephone Rusty. He’ll know what to do. Rusty Bickerton always has Miss Hahn’s best interests at heart, Mr Huff. Forget the constabulary. They’re as good as idiots in these parts anyways. Rusty’ll set things straight and we won’t need to bother dear Carla with none of it. I think that’s the best course. I really does.’

‘But Mrs Barrow …’

‘Put yourself to good use, Mr Huff. Go out and build that rabbit of yourn a cage. And it’ll need a run, to boot: two by four at the very least I’d have thought.’

‘But Mrs Barrow … I really am determined to … Mrs Barrow!’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

More silence.

‘Mrs Barrow …?’

I stand and quietly scrutinize this unfolding scenario for a moment with my dispassionate, journalistic eye. Is Mrs Barrow actually on to something here? Is this not actually about me after all? Am I simply overreacting – lashing out – because I’m so upset … because I haven’t properly processed … because I won’t openly admit to the depth of my real feelings about …? Well? Am I?

Mrs Barrow is standing in the living room as I meekly approach her, gently wafting her duster as she speaks on the phone.

‘Hello there, Mrs Bickerton, this is Mrs Barrow up at Mulberry. Yes, hello. I was wondering if I might have a quick word with Rusty if it’s all the same to you? Oh. Well, when you sees him will you tell him as I needs him to come and see me up here, pronto? It’s a matter of some delicacy. Yes. Yes. Thank you.’

She places down the receiver then glances around the room, deeply gratified.

I fail to see any reason for such high levels of satisfaction. In fact I find myself at quite the opposite side of this emotional scale. I am disgruntled. Momentarily dead-ended. Stoppered.

‘D’you hear that, Mr Huff?’ She places her hand to her ear.

I frown. I listen. Eh?

‘Hear what, Mrs Barrow?’ I respond.

‘Nothing!’ She grins.

‘Nothing?’ I echo, exhausted.

‘They’s all gone! See?’ She chuckles royally at my mystified expression (is it just me, or has life suddenly become horribly … I don’t know … loud? Angular? Bald? Cracked? Convoluted?).

‘Buzz, buzz, buzz!’ She kindly offers me a clue.

What?! Oh. Yes. Yes! The pesky flies! I glance around me. She’s right. They’re gone. They’ve vamoosed! All of them. Every single one of the little blighters.

‘Never give ’em too many options, Mr Huff.’ She taps the side of her nose with her finger. ‘My old Mam taught me that. Don’t be opening all the windows. Don’t spoil ’em. Be sparing. Just open the one – or a door …’

She trots over to the back balcony door and gently pulls it shut.

‘Always put something beyond it as a lure, mind. Flies is like livestock, Mr Huff – and some folk an’ all, come to that! Skittish, they are, plain skittish! So just give ’em clear directions’ – she winks at me, broadly – ‘and then they’ll do as they’s told, right enough.’