Lauren does as she is told. She sits with a heavy cardigan wrapped around her in the living room, warmed by imitation flames. She wants to go to school. Vairi is in the kitchen, clattering through the drawers and cupboards. ‘I’ve been up all night, you know,’ she says in too loud a voice. Then she says something else that Lauren can’t quite hear. It sounds as though she says, ‘I was talking to the wind.’ In the living room Lauren picks up the binoculars on the windowsill and looks out to the forest. She can see the figures of a few people in the field. Two are laying a thin white tape across the trees. Others are getting out of a white van.

At the doily-covered dining table, Lauren eats a fried tattie scone that Vairi has laid out for her. She realizes how hungry she is, and thirsty, taking a sip of orange squash in a glass printed with the Pepsi logo. Scuttling, the rustling of the basement, comes back to her, and Diane hitting the man on the floor, the noise he made. It was as though he was already in pain; he couldn’t stand up. She takes another sip. Vairi’s mug also sits on the table, a miniature painting of a hedgehog and a dandelion printed on its side. Lauren touches a lily leaf in the middle of the table and realizes it is made of fabric.

Vairi fetches a large, leather-bound photo album. ‘Here we go,’ she says. ‘Craig’ll be here in a few minutes. He’ll call when he’s outside. He’s come out of work. Let’s take a look through this while we’re waiting.’ She goes carefully, page by page, the stiff, cellophane leaves unpeeling from each other. ‘There.’ She opens the album wide.

There is a picture of Lauren’s father, much younger, and the woman, the woman from Ann-Marie’s bathroom, her mother, glowing healthier and smiling in a white dress, cutting a tiered cake. Lauren’s face feels hot. She starts to cry. Her mother’s absence is always a quiet hum of sadness, but now it is so loud.

Vairi looks concerned. ‘Now, now, you’re a brave girl. Look on her finger, Lauren.’ There it is, the blurred silver band of a ring. Lauren can make out a shape that looks like a heart.

‘That’s …’ Lauren begins. ‘That’s my mum.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Have you not seen a picture of your parents’ wedding? Doesn’t she look like you?’ Vairi’s voice is dreamy. ‘Anyway, anyway.’ She taps her hands lightly together and pats her neatly curled hair, as if checking it’s still there. ‘She was always wearing that ring.’

‘She’s been visiting me. My mum’s visiting me.’