She felt sour about the pasta. He was only asking her to get it to make sure she went out, if only to the shop at the top of the road. Lauren opened the bedroom window and the soft late-summer air filled the room. Already the sun was hot, and the day had only just got started. She would go outside. But not because he said so. She would go, to prove to herself that there was nothing to be afraid of.

As she gathered up the things she would need in order to leave the house, she kept changing her mind. A feeling of dread descended and she decided she couldn’t do it. Then, she stepped into the garden in her bare feet and was overcome. The light and the warmth gave her strength. Patrick was right—going outside was the answer; staying inside made her mad.

Shower—quickly because Riley was crying. Get dry, get moisturised, dressed in shorts and T-shirt. Sun cream. Change babies’ wet nappies. Feed babies. Change babies’ dirty nappies and clothes, since the stuff had gone everywhere. Two car seats, get them strapped in. Double stroller, folded. Changing bag, nappies, nappy bags, wipes, four changes of clothes. Pacifier for Riley, just in case. Mobile phone, handbag, purse, boots, car keys. Bottle of water. Muslins for mopping up sick.

She managed to pick everything up and hefted the boys and the luggage down the road to where her car was parked, so that her arms ached by the time she got there. She battled with the seat belts in the back of the old three-door Ford, heaved the stroller into the boot, slammed it. Got in, shut the door, put the keys in the ignition and realised she was hungry. Starving. She’d missed breakfast, and now it was lunchtime. The front door was probably sixty yards away. She could just nip back and grab something quickly. She opened the car door to step out.

A jolt, a flash of black something in the bushes. She stared at the spot, feeling adrenaline rushing through her, thinking of the woman hiding, watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. No one there, just a blackbird. Her eyes searched the undergrowth, every shadow morphing into clumps of hair, black rags, then back again to branches, leaves, nettles and shadows.

I can’t leave them, even for a second.