And she was right, of course. It was the fucking internet. They’d been taught since they were six years old that you don’t put anything online you’re not willing to have out there forever. ‘Maybe not. But you’ll find a way to live with it.’

‘Listen to your brother,’ Aunty Nic said, soft now. ‘He knows what he’s talking about.’

‘That’d be a first.’ But not meaning it, he knew. She was listening, looking to him.

He didn’t know what Dad would do, or Mum, but he knew what he needed to. He punched her arm.

‘Let’s take this to the pub, give Aunty Nic some rest.’

Tiny tired smile. ‘Okay.’

‘You’re paying, but. I bought dinner.’

‘With Nic’s money, I bet.’

‘I’m unemployed.’

‘Same, though.’

‘Bloody bludgers. Take my Mastercard and bugger off, will you? I’m exhausted.’

They kissed her goodnight, crept out like she was a lightly sleeping baby. In the hallway, Lena took a great heaving breath and Will thought she would start sobbing again, but she righted herself quickly. Gave him a nod. And on they went.

NIC

NIC

Every morning, after feeding the cats, Nic makes a cup of tea and goes through yesterday’s mail. Most days she’s done with the sorting and chucking and filing before she’s halfway through her tea. She thinks she might switch the task to weekly to allow a decent pile to form. More satisfying that way.

Today there is only one piece of addressed mail, a letter about her follow-up appointment at the hospital. Dutifully she places it into the red plastic in-tray Lena has put dead centre on the dining table she deigned to leave in the living room. It still makes Nic’s stomach churn to think about what happened to the others: dropped into the stinking rotting maw of the council tip, obliterated by a woodchipper or some kind of futuristic crusher. Her beautiful, useful, friendly tables of different colours and materials and lengths and heights, each bringing its unique personality to the room, each crushed into anonymity. Made indistinguishable in a mass of colourless, shapeless waste.