Downstairs one of the dogs starts to howl. Ann-Marie starts to shout at them and sounds more childlike. Lauren tries to find her phone and then remembers she left it in her bag downstairs. In the half-light on the landing, she sees a glass dome encasing a stuffed bird. It is sitting on a gnarled branch with peeling lichen. The bird is large and pheasant-like but obsidian black, with red, leathery eyebrows and a tail that looks just like a Spanish fan. Its long neck is stretched upwards, as if it is reaching for something with its blunt white beak. It looks too dusty to come alive. She can see its eyes are fake.

When she finally goes to find Ann-Marie, she is sitting by the fire, acting as though Lauren has only been away for a couple of minutes.

‘Those pictures in the bathroom. Ann-Marie, is one of them my mum?’

Ann-Marie thinks for a second. ‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t realize.’

‘Do you have any more? We only have one in the house and …’ The photograph sits on a table on the landing, her mother’s young face looking hopefully off camera, her hair decorated with tiny plastic butterflies.

‘What? You only have one photo of your mum?’

‘Yeah. I think my dad has more. I’ve tried to get him to show me but it makes him upset. He—’ She was about to say, He drinks too much, but stops herself.

‘If I find any more, I’ll give them to you, but I’m not totally sure we do, sorry. Hey,’ the older girl says, looking into the flames, ‘do you want to know a secret? You can keep a secret, can’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Ann-Marie looks at her.

‘Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a nee—’

‘OK, yeah. Look.’ She pulls up the side of her T-shirt to show a large black tattoo on her hip. There are tendrils, tentacles of some creature, similar to an octopus but a stranger shape, with a pointy head. There are dark-blue ink splotches over her stomach.

‘Oh my God! When did you get that?’

‘In Edinburgh.’

‘When?’ Lauren can’t take her eyes off the twisting limbs.

‘A month ago.’

‘What is it?’

‘A squid. It captures its prey with its two front tentacles, like this.’ She wraps her arms around Lauren, who tries to twist away, tries not to laugh. ‘Then it tickles them. Like this.’

Lauren pushes her off, not able to keep a straight face.

They sit in silence for a while, then Lauren says, ‘Was it sore?’

‘A little. Actually, yeah, really sore.’

‘My dad says it’s sore. He has some. But he says I’m not allowed. Do your mum and dad know?’