He’s gone and I’m tired. There’s nothing to do. I can’t be bothered to move. Turn off the bedside light and lie down. But it’s impossible to sleep with the sound of them coming up through the ceiling. Dad laughing at something on the TV. Both of them downstairs on the sofa drinking milky teas and fighting over the footrest. No room for anyone else. The sketch is far too good. The bird box all straight and perfect on the page. I wonder if Reynolds will let me use the rasps. I can feel the weight of my school skirt, resting over the end of the covers. Voices and music all blurred and distant, like the vicar giving the sermon at church – blah, blah, blah, the sound of it going up and down and up again like a song that nobody knows. And the organist playing everything too slow even when the lyrics tell her otherwise. Oh, be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet, our God is marching on.

Now it’s the darkness and the trees. Bird boxes, all wonky with nails bashed in wrong. Simon Williams stripped down to his vest and under-kecks. He hands me a hammer and I take a swing. Before I hit anything a head pops out. I want to scream but no sound comes. It’s all trapped in my chest. And the bird is stuck. The hole is too small. Its head is black and white with beady little eyes. They shine in the darkness. It opens its beak and the noise it makes is terrible. Like metal against metal.