‘What about the deer?’

He blinked, surprised. ‘Do you want to eat that?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s dead, isn’t it?’

Jim went to get the deer from the river. The rain was still battering the house and even listening to it made me shiver. I wondered about borrowing some of his clothes, but having him come back to find me lost in one of his jumpers seemed somehow a step too far. I looked in his cupboard instead and tried to think what the hell to make with deer and the contents of his shelves, which mostly held tinned tomatoes, Tabasco sauce, coffee and a tub of St John’s wort tablets. This wasn’t going to win me any prizes.

The door pounded into the wall and ricocheted back halfway. I went to close it and looked out into hissing, furious darkness. My own rain globe. Maybe the house would be drummed into the sodden ground until you could only see the roof.

‘Christ,’ said Jim, stooping in the doorway with a torch in hand, rain dripping from his beard. ‘That’s not getting any friendlier.’

After dinner – not exactly my proudest culinary moment, but at least containing meat sourced by myself – I sat on the snowshoe chair, looking at the blank space at the top of my phone screen. I’d completely forgotten to message Lottie. Jim had relaxed and told me about the house and how he’d fixed it up, before going quiet again and staring into the fire as if it was one of the harder bits of Ulysses, clutching his whisky glass.

I’d been with him for hours. ‘Do you never listen to music?’

He looked up. ‘Got a radio. But you can’t get much on it. Lots of people whinging mostly. And I’ve tapes in the Land Rover.’

‘Tapes?’

He widened his eyes at me. ‘Aye.’

I sniggered a little before making myself look very serious. ‘They’re coming back, you know. Tapes. Bands release stuff just on cassette now. Not big bands, but you’re their perfect market.’ I pointed a finger at him and nodded very definitely.

He eyed me wryly. ‘What do you listen to, then?’

‘All sorts.’

‘Go on, then. Give us a blast of something.’

I scrolled through my music, choosing a band I’d seen play when I was staying with Stef, before everything went wrong. Nasty, heavy rock, spartan and punky, not normally my thing but their ferocity had made me laugh hysterically, and the singer had hurled himself into the front rows, narrowly avoiding my head, slammed to the ground and puked everywhere. Stef had declared himself completely in love.

Feeling bolshy, the whisky burning a hole in my stomach, I perched on the armrest of Jim’s chair and put my headphones on his head. The band blitzed out, all tinny thrashing guitars and snare drum and hi-hats. He sat very still, his hands clasped and palms upwards, looking into the middle distance. I propped my chin on a hand and looked at the fire.