In the small hours, Lauren is restless in the dark. She hears the beating of wings close to her bedroom window. She winds the corner of her woollen blanket tightly around her fist. The worry dolls are asleep now, under the pillow. Each one knows a secret question. She thinks of the girls in the cloakroom and the way they know something too. The dog with the leg. Whose leg? A man up in the woods. She imagines the girls’ mothers knowing her mother in a way she does not. She is trying to grasp at something she doesn’t even know the shape of. Did her mother fall out with her father? Did she run away because she didn’t like him and his music and his drinking? Sometimes, when she is lonely, part of her wishes her mother had taken her with her, to somewhere exciting. She imagines her in a vintage sports car or drinking cocktails at a party held in her honour, somewhere in a city.

She hears the loud fluttering again, by the window, but when she looks out there is nothing but the night sky. The moon is as big and white as an empty dinner plate. Outside in the garden she sees large birds perched on the fence posts. The silhouettes of buzzards, a white barn owl, rooks. There are shapes moving on the lawn, little animals, pine martens and stoats chasing each other in circles by the herb garden. She looks over to her left and sees a fox, its ears facing forward. Another appears and Lauren is rooted by the window, watching.

Sometimes another feeling creeps up her spine like fingers. She has seen the looks children give her at school, the way some keep a wide berth. She hears about birthday parties the day after they happen. She can feel the rumours invisible around her in the playground, like text messages travelling from one kid to another. Once someone asked if it was true that her house was haunted. Another asked her if her dad had spent time in prison.