First night. Footsteps cross the ceiling, a door bangs. It’s past midnight, but the house is alive.

Marina sits in bed dressed like a Dickens character complete with fingerless gloves, bedsocks and hat. She shivers, hunkers down and tries to sleep. Despite having had the window open since she arrived, the room has a musty, choking smell. The door is propped ajar with the telephone directory, and sounds carry. The front door slams, and the whole house judders. Somewhere, another door opens and closes. A baby is crying.

She switches on the lamp. It highlights the miserable brown wallpaper and she distracts herself considering which colour she’ll paint the room: bright yellow perhaps, or rich indigo or burnt orange. She thinks about reading but doubts she’ll be able to concentrate and swings her legs out of bed.

In the kitchen, she boils the kettle and makes tea. Cradling the warm mug, she takes it into the living room. Ruth’s folder is on the table. Marina has re-read the clippings and notes many times, but she settles in the armchair and leafs through again.

She scans the letter from the nurse who looked after her, Sofía Marques. The tone is warm as she talks of letting her house when her husband died and going to Ireland to be close to her son. She talks about her son’s new job in London too and the whole family returning and the pleasure she gains from her grandchildren. Children are everything, she writes. They help me heal.

Outside a fox screams. Marina puts aside the letter and looks through the window, but there’s no sign of anything. She crosses to her front door and opens it a crack. Despite the hour, beneath the baby’s crying, she hears piano music weaving through the house. On impulse, she steps into the hall. There’s an eerie stillness among the shadows. Opening the main front door, she stands at the top of the steps breathing the frosty air. The houses opposite are still. Distant sounds of traffic float from the main road, while inside the house, the baby quietens and the music stops. The fox appears, a vixen perhaps, walking nonchalantly along the street, searching for food.

In the morning, Marina wakes to the sound of church bells. She jumps out of bed and braves the icy bathroom before making strong coffee which she laces with sugar. Peering into her sparsely stocked cupboards, she decides to go out for breakfast. Hastily, she pulls on black leggings and a turtleneck jumper, her gloves and coat, and soon she’s springing down the steps and into the street.