The door opened again and Achilles threw himself energetically into the room, as if he’d been despatched from a cannon, looking around at his parents and sister cheerfully.

‘Good to see you’re all keeping your blood alcohol levels up,’ he said, nodding towards their glasses.

‘Oh, shut up,’ they all replied in unison.

‘And at least it doesn’t make you cranky,’ he replied. ‘What’s everyone talking about in here anyway? You all look so gloomy.’

‘I’ve broken up with Wilkes,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Catweazle? Oh no,’ he said. ‘How awful. He was like the brother I never wanted. I hope he stays in touch.’

‘And I’m probably going to be fired,’ said George.

‘Will that affect my allowance?’

‘It’s conceivable, yes.’ And then, realizing the word he had just used, he felt a stab of pain in his stomach.

‘And what about you, Mother darling?’ asked Achilles. ‘What has you so blue?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘I’ve been let down by someone I trusted.’

‘The ghost?’

‘No, I never trusted the ghost to begin with. There’s something in the way she speaks to me that makes me think she doesn’t respect my writing.’

‘Her writing, you mean.’

‘MY WRITING! THEY’RE MY IDEAS!’

‘So who has let you down, then? Tell Achilles. He’s wiser than he looks.’

‘You’re a very annoying boy,’ she replied, pouring another glass of wine and handing it to her son before tousling his hair. ‘I don’t know how you’re related to any of us, I really don’t.’

From behind them, a faint scraping came at the half-open door and they all turned to look in its direction. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the door began to open wider. But, to their astonishment, there was no one there.

‘It’s the ghost!’ cried Achilles, delighted with himself.

‘No, it’s the fucking turtle,’ said George, pointing down at the ground. ‘What’s wrong with him anyway?’

‘He’s a tortoise, not a turtle,’ said Beverley as all eyes turned to the reptile, who appeared exhausted by his long journey down the hallway and all the effort that had gone into pushing the door open with his tiny head. Having secured the attention of eighty per cent of the Cleverley family, however, he pulled himself upright, or as upright as a tortoise can, before opening his mouth and despatching a stream of green-and-white tortoise vomit across the floor.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ said George.

‘Poor baby, he’s sick,’ said Beverley, standing up to help him, then thinking better of it and resuming her seat. ‘It must be something he ate.’ She sniffed the air. The stream of puke was moving in her direction at the same glacial rate that its former host generally employed. ‘Why does it smell so minty?’ she asked.

‘It’s the After Eights,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s addicted.’