She lifts her head. The grey metal strips of a drain cover gleam dully from the gutter a few metres away. She inches the car forward and brakes just beside it; she looks round checking the street is empty then opens the door and leaning out, drops the knife through the grating. She hears, or imagines she hears, a faint answering splash. She straightens, straps on her belt and begins to drive; lucky it’s not far – it’s difficult to see through eyes streaming with angry tears. Fury and triumph are hot in her throat. She shucks off the wet flip-flops when she arrives and gets out. Fireworks bang and crackle beyond the house, shooting sparks high above the roof. She can hear Blake’s voice with the others, shouting loudly. The inhaler wasn’t needed after all; she could laugh if her stomach wasn’t twisting with longing for Martin and her kids, for alcohol and warmth.