‘It sounded strange to me. I think Angela was right to call the police.’

‘Hmm,’ says Niall, knocking back the tepid dregs of his mug. ‘She’s a one, that one. Angela.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, nothing. As long as she’s not wanting me to go and fix something, that’s fine.’

Kirsty rubs her eye and shifts in her seat. ‘Well. I do feel calmer now. I mean, we’re just literally in the door from Paris and – I usually feel so safe here, you know. Paris is a different matter. Police, guns, everywhere this time.’ She crosses her legs and props up her chin with one hand. ‘And now I’m coming round yours for a blether like a mothers’ meeting.’ She sighs and his face softens for a moment. ‘Craig left early for work,’ she continues. ‘Anyway, you haven’t seen anything strange, then?’

‘That Angela,’ he says, shaking his head, remembering her odd voice on the end of the telephone. ‘That Angela is full of stories.’

On the school bus home, Lauren can’t find a free seat at first. The rain pelts the roof while the fan heater hums at full tilt. She is carrying a cumbersome collage of a bonfire, made from red cellophane and brown felt stuck to thick cardboard. She hopes her dad likes it.

She spots two empty seats together, which is strange when the rest of the bus is so busy. As she shifts over towards the window, a drip falls from the ceiling and trickles down her neck. She hoists the artwork away from the water, propping it against the steamed glass.

The bus doors gasp open and a boy, Callum McColl, climbs into the aisle.

‘Here, Callum,’ yells Maisie from a few seats behind, ‘you take my seat, I want to sit beside Lauren.’

Lauren freezes and jerks her head at the boy to come and sit beside her and ignore Maisie.

‘Don’t do it,’ Maisie carries on to Callum. ‘And she fancies you anyway.’ Maisie swings her body round into the seat next to Lauren’s and thumps down with her heavy Disney rucksack. ‘Hey, Lauren! How ya doin’?’ The mock sincerity in Maisie’s tone is light, but present. ‘How’s it going there, pal?’

‘What do you want?’ says Lauren.

‘Excuse me, Lauren, that sounds a bit rude!’ Maisie scoff-chuckles and looks sideways at an imagined audience.

Lauren folds her arms tighter and focuses on the window and the trees blurring by like smeared paint. Maisie’s braying is difficult to tune out.

‘Oh my God, Lauren?’ She makes a choking sound. ‘Did you have … an accident?’

Lauren looks round slowly and sees Maisie pointing to a large damp patch at the edge of her seat, below the ancient Shitehouse roof that is patched with gaffer tape.

‘Oh my God,’ Maisie says again. Then louder, standing up to address the rest of the bus: ‘Oh my God, Lauren’s wet herself.’