She sits and thumbs the pages of the spaewife’s leatherbound book on her bed, to find what she must do. She realizes it has become very late, as she goes out into the black garden, scooping up four jam jars on her way.

For a brief moment, a bat flutters in the trees. At the back of the overgrown shrubbery is a patch of lavender and herbs. Imagining her mother planted these, she tries to tend to the plants while keeping them hidden. She wants to make sure it’s neat in case her mother returns, but she tells herself off for thinking this.

She picks three stems of lavender, three of sage and three of double-flowered camomile for each jar. Back in the house, she throws rice and salt into the jars and places them at the four points of the compass, touching each with a wish for the safety of the house. As she walks through the hall, she tries to look for clues: drops of blood or strands of hair. But the house is clean.

She takes three stones and places them on the hearth. She listens carefully, but there is still no sound of her father’s truck in the drive.

She goes up to his messy room and watches the dark stretch of road below. Sometimes there are absences she can’t explain. She has tried to stop feeling worried if he doesn’t come home right away. There’s a game she plays. From his window she can make out the shape and colour of the cars as they pass a lamp post on the single-track road. Their headlights between the fir trees and endless fields beyond. She speaks one word of a sentence with the passing of each car. Sometimes ten or twenty minutes might elapse between vehicles. It depends which day it is. Sometimes the traffic vanishes mid-sentence.

A small car. ‘Where …’

Empty road. She sees a large bird, a buzzard, swoop down and sit on a fence post.

A white van from the bakery. ‘Is …’

Empty road. Her dad is a good person.

Alan Mackie’s jeep is coming back from the town. ‘My …’

Empty road. She hopes he’s safe.

Empty road.

The pickup. The pickup. The pickup. Jameson starts barking and runs down the staircase with her.

Niall comes through the door: a cold, wet coat and beard and hat. He lifts Lauren in his arms and swings her round.

‘DAD.’

‘You’re home early!’

She observes his face closely, its lines and pores. ‘No. You came home late.’

‘Sorry, toots. Ran into Sandy Ross. He wants me to play with his band on Tuesday. How about that?’

‘Can I come?’

‘I think it’s too late for wee lassies like you.’

‘I’m not a wee lassie.’