‘Mugged three times, now,’ I said, fixing Pierce with a stare. Or trying to, because he turned his back on me, and opened a kitchen drawer. For a moment I thought he might be putting the postcard in there, but he had left it on the side, and it wasn’t clear what he was doing – taking out a small object, a tiny glitter of chrome, a weapon? But it was small enough to palm without my seeing more. Why was I so nervous around Pierce? His behaviour was off, for sure. Did I have reason to fear him? Or was I sensing my own conflicted motives reflected back at me? Did I mean to hurt Pierce?

‘I guess that’s right,’ Pierce said, returning to the living room. ‘Three times. You never did tell me about the second time.’

Nor did I intend to. Not at this moment, in any case. My gaze had rested upon the cockatoo, which tipped its head at me, as if waiting for me to say or do something.

‘It’s weird, actually, what you say about authenticity following me around,’ I began, not really knowing where to begin. ‘Because for the past few days, I’ve had the impression that I’ve been followed around by …’ I couldn’t finish. It sounded too odd, spoken aloud.

‘By what?’ Pierce’s voice came from the living room.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think I must have got a lungful of fumes when we went to Barking, and it’s been messing with my head.’

‘We were equally exposed,’ Pierce said. ‘What’s following you around?’

‘Smoke,’ I said. And as I spoke, my nostrils filled with the smell of burning, unbelievably strong and real.

I clamped my eyes shut. It’s not real, I told myself firmly. It’s a panic attack. I’m stressed, I can’t cope with my circumstances, and my mind tells me to get out as fast as possible. And it creates a reason to do so. That’s what’s been happening. There’s no smoke, it’s an incentive conjured up by the flee reflex in the brain.

The smell was only intensifying. I breathed in hard to try to show myself that the sensations were coming from within, not from the atmosphere. The incinerator stench was overwhelming, and I erupted into a coughing fit.

This was ridiculous. It’s not real, none of it is real.

The kitchen smoke alarm burst into noise, a staccato electronic peal. I was standing directly beneath it, and it was loud enough to cause pain, a spike driven into the head.

I opened my eyes. Smoke was pouring under the kitchen arch in a solid grey river, drawn by the open window over the sink.

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Shit!’