She didn’t answer, and after a bit he pulled off his t-shirt and began using that to wipe his hands, and the occasional promising-looking item. Didn’t matter if the shirt got wrecked. It was a crappy old freebie, hardware store logo front and back. He’d worn it because it was the softest t-shirt he owned. Had to dress comfy for travel. Didn’t notice when he put it on that moths had feasted on a section near the back hem and that the neckline was fraying in the front. No bloody wonder Mercy’d had enough. Look at the state of him, when she always made such an effort.

Over the next couple of hours Will sorted through six plastic storage containers in between glaring at his still and silent phone. There were dozens of records (mostly rubbish compilations but a couple of classics—Bowie! Springsteen! Patti Smith!—that he put aside for himself), four containers of wrapping paper (used and neatly folded as well as brand-new rolls) and six of Christmas decorations and lights. Underneath a plastic tub of sewing patterns—none of them looked more recent than 1985—there was a sewing machine, still in its sealed-up box. He wanted to ask Lena if Aunty Nic sewed and, if not, what did she reckon an unused but possibly quite old sewing machine was worth, but she was getting saltier and saltier every time he opened his mouth. She had, at least, chucked a pack of ibuprofen at him when he asked if she had any painkillers, but she’d looked super angry about it. He pushed the machine to the side and carried on.

Next: three tubs of yarn and one full of knitting needles and patterns. Definitely never seen his aunty knitting, never received a knitted gift from her (thank god). Knitting gear could be chucked. Or sold. Would anyone buy this stuff? It looked all right. Lena had said anything useless and this wool was definitely useable. Shit. He shoved the knitting gear next to the sewing machine. He’d deal with the definitely-getting-thrown-out stuff first and then make decisions about the rest.

‘Will?’ Lena yelled from some distant pile, ten years or half a day since he’d arrived. ‘Did you want to order some food? There’s fuck-all here.’

‘Yeah, um, thing is I don’t have any cash and my account is kind of—’

A sigh heavy enough to bring down walls. ‘I’ll get it. But it’ll have to be cheap-arse Dominos.’

Will’s whole mouth spasmed at the thought of the chewy crust, the acidic sauce. He told her not to bother for him. He wasn’t hungry. ‘Cool. Same,’ she said. ‘Just thought I’d offer.’