What’s that? She shakes her head, confused. A feeling that there is more than one of her, of her having been here before, maybe. A gauzy curtain across her mind. Déjà vu. She hardly ever experiences it. She blinks, and the feeling is gone, as insubstantial as smoke from a distant fire on the breeze. What was it? Her hand on the brass knob? The lamp outside? No, she can’t recall. It’s gone now.

As she hurries out, the autumn cold chills her skin immediately. She hurries towards Todd and the man, hoping Kelly is still awake, that he’s heard her leave and is coming, too. The thoughts rush through her mind like the clicking of a camera, one after the other after the other. She doesn’t act on any of them, doesn’t go back for Kelly. All she does is keep moving forwards, out on to the drive, maternal instincts pulling her towards her son with a force that feels as strong as gravity.

By the time she reaches the end of their U-shaped driveway, the man – taller than Todd, and bulkier, too – is shouting Todd’s name, and suddenly Todd has the front of this stranger’s coat in his grasp, is squaring up to him, his shoulders thrust forwards, their bodies a Yin and Yang sign in the night.

‘What’re you doing?’ she shouts, and that’s when she sees the knife.

She rushes towards them. Adrenaline sharpens Jen’s vision as she sees it happen. A quick, clean stab. And then, afterwards, everything seems to move in slow motion: the arm pulling back, the clothing resisting then releasing the knife. Two white feathers emerge with the blade, drifting aimlessly in the frozen air.

She stares as black blood begins to spurt, huge amounts of it, way more than she would’ve thought possible. She must be kneeling down now, because she becomes aware of the little stones of the path cutting round divots into her knees. She cradling him, parting his jacket, feeling the heat of the blood as it dribbles down her hands, between her fingers, and down her wrists. The warm weight in her arms.

She has gone completely cold. She undoes his shirt and looks. His torso begins to flood; the three coin-slot wounds swim in and out of view, it’s like trying to see the bottom of a red pond.

‘No.’ Her voice is thick and wet as she screams.

She looks around her desperately, wanting someone else to take charge.

She lays him on their driveway and leans over him. She blinks, peering carefully. She hopes she’s wrong, but she’s sure, for just a moment, that he isn’t here anymore. His eyes are open and still, no comprehension in them.

The night is completely silent, and after what must be several minutes, she blinks, then looks up at her son, still holding the knife, just gazing down at her, his expression neutral. He drops the knife. It sings as the metal hits the frozen pavement. He wipes a hand across his face, leaving a smear of blood.