“She’s fine, yeah, we’re on the other side of the house, so the window blew out rather than in. Bloody scary moment, but we’re alright. She’s got the gas stove out, she’s making a cuppa now. D’you want me to come in? Your patio doors are broken, I could get through…”

“Would you?”

“Of course, yeah! No problem. You in the back room?”

“Yeah, me and Charley.”

“Okay, see you shortly.”

I hear footsteps, first squelching, then sploshing, then crunching as he approaches the house. I feel my way back to Charley and shake her. She grumbles – not speaking, just a noise in her throat.

“Charley, sweetheart, you have to wake up.”

“Muuuuuuuuuuhh”

“Charley. Charley.”

“Don’ wanna…”

“Come on, baby girl, I know you don’t want to, but you need to wake up now.

“Daddy Rob…”

I hear the door open as bright torchlight stabs into my eyes, and this time Charley and I groan as one, involuntarily.

The light plays over the floor. There’s glass all over the carpet, the pink chair, which is now soaked with rain water. The glass twinkles dully. Overlaid on that is a fine layer of dark grey-brown dust. It coats the floor, the duvet, my own arms and body. I see it in Charley’s hair. My stomach sinks, my worst fears realised.

“Well, THIS is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

Outside, the rain hammers down. Relentless.

6

We’re in Pete and Sharon’s house. I’ve never been in here before.

It’s kind of a revelation.

There’s a lot of mirrors. Like, a disconcerting amount. Vintage, or copies of same – Pepsi, Esso, Marilyn, Elvis. We sit in the living room, and my eyes keep getting drawn to the (please let it be fake) huge oil painting of a racehorse over the mantelpiece, in a heavy wooden frame. The zebra print rug (!) that covers most of the living room floor. The porcelain knick-knacks that seem to cover every available flat surface. The cumulative effect is one of profoundly irritating distraction – there’s always something in the corner of your eye screaming for your attention.

The light source doesn’t help – maybe a dozen tea lights on a coffee table in the centre of the rug, the flames flickering every time anybody stands up or sits down, sending reflections across all the damn mirrors and porcelain like a geriatric glitter ball.

I’m being spoken to.

“Sorry?”

“How’s the tea? Is it okay?”

I look down at the not-quite warm enough cup of what appears to be grey dishwater. I take a sip. It tastes about as bad as it looks, albeit sweeter. “Lovely, thanks.”

I give Sharon a smile, which she returns automatically. It’s a sad, distracted thing, but better than nothing.