‘Hey. Sorry. It just popped into my head.’ Ann-Marie looks puzzled.

‘Daughter Lauren?’

‘I said Bonnie darlin Lauren. What’s wrong? Where is that song from again? I’m sure I know it.’ She sings again. ‘Bonnie Lauren Mackay. Happy?’

‘Please, don’t. Who were you talking to?’

‘What?’ Ann-Marie comes up to Lauren’s bed, her silver jewellery catching the lamplight.

‘Who was it?’

‘Huh?’ Ann-Marie’s face is blank.

‘The woman you were talking to. Outside.’

Ann-Marie stares at her. ‘Lauren,’ she says in a half-whisper, ‘I wasn’t speaking to anyone.’

‘Yes, you were.’

Ann-Marie sits on the edge of the counterpane, pulling the ends of her jumper over her hands. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Why won’t you tell me? I’m not lying. I saw you.’

Ann-Marie sighs. ‘What did you see?’

‘A girl. You were talking to someone.’

‘I was?’

Lauren nods.

‘And you know who she is?’

Lauren hesitates. ‘I think so.’

‘Who, then?’

‘No. I don’t. Really. It’s hard to explain.’

‘Right. I was calling the dogs. They were running off too far. That’s who I was talking to.’

‘There was a girl, a woman.’

Ann-Marie looks out of the window. ‘Whatever happened, I think you should get some sleep. I’m texting Diane up the road, to see if she’s on her way. Rowland’s still outside. God, he’s never normally like this.’ Her phone begins to buzz.

‘Ann-Marie?’

‘It’s Diane calling, sorry.’

Lauren talks quickly. ‘I saw this lady the other night and—’

‘Sorry, I think I should answer. We can talk about this tomorrow? Try and get some rest. I’ll tell my mum and she can tell your dad.’

It looks a bit like her, Lauren doesn’t manage to say. Ann-Marie snaps the light off and closes the door with a hush of air. In the pitch black Lauren falls into a hazy sleep. The last thing she thinks of is white candles.

What could be some minutes or hours later, Lauren hears two voices downstairs against music that sounds like an angry factory. She climbs out into the cold room and puts her ear to a ridge between the floorboards. There is a third voice, male and scratchy.

Out on the landing and hiding behind the heavy bannister she squints into the yellowy hall below. Diane, who lives up the road, is swaying her black ironed hair, a green bottle in her hand. ‘Let me talk to him!’ she is saying in her croaky voice.

Ann-Marie appears by the fire, licking her thumb. They have been toasting marshmallows again. She is talking on FaceTime to someone Lauren thinks must be Rory, her boyfriend. She catches him saying, ‘What you up to? Couple of dafties.’ The music rasps and drones.

‘We’re having a party,’ says Diane. Each of her eyelids has a perfect black flick of liner and her mouth is the shade of blackberries. ‘We found her parents’ booze.’