Niall does not like the overhead lighting today, however. It is too bright and makes him aware that he hasn’t showered. He tries to glimpse himself in the thin side mirror of the dairy aisle, but only sees part of his unkempt beard. He goes to the magazine rack, his heavy, chapped hands fumbling on the bottom shelf to pick up a copy of Pony magazine with a pink cellophane package stuck to the front. The handles of the basket feel too thin and the wire digs into his palms as he walks past a huge display of boxed fireworks. He finds onions, flour and cider, but misses out some herbs: ‘one bay leaf’ doesn’t sound like it will make much difference. Perhaps he can find something in the garden. He hasn’t considered the pastry itself until now. He asks a teenage shop assistant, Kayleigh, where he can find its ingredients. She gives him a doubtful, blue-eyeshadowed look and suggests he buy a roll of something pre-made from the chilled aisle.

He buys some extra things: instant coffee, more budget cornflakes, blue milk, own-brand beans, apples for Lauren who loves them, like her mother. He stands in the queue behind a family scanning Catherine wheels.

Driving back through Duthac he stops by the ironmonger’s, a dark shop cluttered with floor-to-ceiling tools and materials, with its own familiar smell of chalk and rust. Squeezing between tins of paint, plant pots and power drills, he buys caulk, nails and sandpaper to fix the leaking roof.

At home, he dumps the ingredients on the kitchen counter and sits frozen on the sofa in his coat, summoning up the energy for the meat of the dish.

He claps his hands together, then heaves the sliding patio door open to the chilly garden. He hoists himself up on to the first concrete ledge, bedded with shrubs, and walks up the path to the bushes at the back that lead to a sloping field. Here he keeps a small vegetable patch that mostly animals benefit from.

At the edge of the bushes by the fence, he crawls on his hands and knees and feels around for a wooden box. It is cuboid and weathered, about two feet long and eight inches wide. His knee bones ache when he crouches and his tightly laced boots cut into his ankles and feet. His hands are almost as rough as the box, which has darkened with algae. The door board of the box, which he built himself, is closed. He drags it out, feeling the weight at the end twitching. He stands and up-ends it, then opens the sliding door and peers into the black.