Although, if they were people who loved Clio, why weren’t they here right now, doing this, instead of her?

All the curtains were drawn, she realized, which was a bit odd – Clio had presumably left here round about lunchtime, almost three weeks ago. She’d gone into the living room first, assuming that anything important would be at Clio’s desk in there. She’d never seen the place like this. It had always been cluttered, sure, but when Clio was entertaining – all those uncomfortable, badly cooked dinners where Ruth would be seated beside someone earnest, political and humourless and Clio would laugh too loudly and drain the last bottle – there had been a chicness about this old junk-shop stuff that Ruth had envied. Now it looked dusty and chaotic, the room taking on its owner’s state of mind, and Ruth wanted to be away from it all. A threadbare tartan blanket in the slumped easy chair still held the shape of the person who’d last wrapped it around herself. Perhaps she’d sat here as she’d made the phone call.

‘Can I come out and stay with you for a while, Ruth? I need to. There’s just crows here. I can see seventeen of them right now, on the aerial and chimney pot across the street. I need you to ground me, Ruth. Every time the wind blows they turn their heads and look at me and caw. Oh, they’re in the air now. Like a swarm of bloody – flies! I know I’m not being rational about this. I know I sound mad. I need help again, Ruth. I can’t be here.’

Now, in the darkness of the living room, its walls painted a sloppy old blood colour, Ruth folded the blanket up in the chair, then pushed open the heavy curtains and threw the window sash up. The room badly needed air. There were no birds outside that she could see.