And above it, stretching into the heavy grey sky, was the plume. It had not been above the house the other day. Nor had it twisted and tautened in that same urgent way. Was the house itself on fire? No, but it was being consumed all the same. The tree didn’t make that crack, it couldn’t have. I thought of what had brought it down, the pool sucking away at the ground underneath me, underneath everything.

I rushed back into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind me. But rather than shutting, the door banged hard against its frame and rebounded into the garden. This jarring impact reverberated in the structure of the kitchen, settling back to nothing as the door shuddered on its hinges. One that won’t open, another that won’t close, I thought. After a beat of silence, there was a sharp plink noise, like an old lightbulb blowing out, and a crack appeared across one of the glass panels in the roof.

Staring up at the broken glass, I backed out of the kitchen, into the living room. A high, squeaking groan issued from somewhere above me – wood and plaster under terminal strain. There was another angry crack across the living room ceiling, forked like lightning. Traces of pinkish plaster moult furred the cans arrayed on the table and floor. From behind me, out in the bathroom area, came a sharp pop and a patter of falling dust.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Time to go.’

I ran down the hall and resumed my desperate tug-of-war with the handle of the front door, but it was still lodged fast. A long, stuttering creak, the building clearing its throat, rang down the corridor around me. I was dimly aware of sounds from outside.

The door was a waste of time. I had to call for help. I took my phone from my pocket and dialled 999. ‘Fire,’ I said. The highness and the hoarseness of my voice startled me. As the call went through I hammered against the door with the flat of my hand.

The door hammered back.

‘Fire service,’ said a voice over the phone.

‘Fire service!’ said a voice through the door.

‘You’re … already here?’ I said into the phone, thumbing an end to the call.

‘Are you in there?’ the voice shouted through the door. It was an authoritative voice, male, accustomed to shouting, in control. There was a frightening urgency to it, like a shot of strong spirit.

‘I’m here,’ I shouted, again struck by the comparative weediness of my own voice. ‘I can’t open the door. It’s jammed shut.’

‘Don’t open the door!’ the voice said, shouted, the insistence sending a chilled spike through me. I thought of Pierce and the knife, and the silly fear of it.

‘I can’t,’ I said, at a loss.

‘Don’t! The whole place is about to come down, your front door might be the only thing keeping it up!’