Six months ago he had heard that his aunt had come round after more than a year in a coma. He and Sam had resumed their visits to hospital until they were barred under the terms of lockdown, and Trish had remained semi-conscious before her condition deteriorated again. The head injuries that had been inflicted on her by the assailant a year ago were still far from healed, and she was on very heavy doses of steroids to stop renewed swelling. Then in April she’d resumed consciousness properly, had promptly caught Covid-19, and was put into a medically-induced coma because the violent coughing was threatening to cause further inflammation inside her skull. The last Gillard had heard, a week ago, was that she was conscious again, but still needed another month in hospital.

‘I discharged myself. I was fed up with the place,’ she said, handing Gillard the handle of her wheeled suitcase. She was wearing an unseasonably heavy overcoat, and a beret. To Gillard’s eyes she looked exactly the same. She must be almost eighty, still stick thin and upright with the same shrewd expression. ‘Where are my cats?’

‘With some neighbours, they’re retired and were better able to look after them. Napoleon is still going strong, as are Billericay and Grizelda. I’m sorry to say that Lucretia ran away, and we don’t know what happened to her.’

Trish was already through the doorway, staring at Sam.

‘Hello, Trish,’ Sam said weakly. ‘How are you?’

‘Hard to kill, I suppose. Everything aches, you know. No baby for me yet, then?’ Trish looked at Sam’s slim figure, then scanned the hall as if looking for signs of prams or toys.

‘As you know, Sam had two miscarriages, and since her ordeal, well…’ Gillard said.

‘Gone off sex, I suppose. It gets worse as you get older, dear,’ she said, resting a hand briefly on Sam’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be staying for a few days at least, until I get my place sorted out.’

‘I’m not sure we’ll be able to look after you, because we’re both working,’ Gillard said.

‘I can look after myself,’ Trish replied. She made her way into the downstairs loo and closed the door. Gillard and Sam stood and stared at each other, mouthing phrases of incredulity. Once she re-emerged, Trish asked: ‘Are you expecting me to carry my case up on my own?’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ Gillard said. He trudged up the stairs with the luggage as if going to his own execution. He made his way into the second bedroom, and laid the suitcase down on the bed. Trish followed him and scowled at the place. ‘Is there an en suite toilet? Only I have to go regularly at short notice.’

‘No, you have to share the main one at the top of the stairs with us.’