‘Dementia,’ I think to myself as I walk back down the path. ‘Poor man.’

But as we make our way along the street towards the pub I see Isobel coming towards me. She’s wearing a white dress with large red flowers printed across the top. It looks a few sizes too small and clings tightly to her hips. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her eyes are ringed with smudged mascara, like she’s been crying or asleep. She looks like a different person.

‘Lisa,’ she says, seemingly unperturbed by her appearance. ‘Where are you off to?’

Her dishevelled state has thrown me so much that for a moment I don’t know what to say so I just stand there looking at her.

‘Lisa,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Er, yes,’ I say, taking Joe’s hand. ‘I just … I just went to your house because I wondered if I could be cheeky and ask if I could charge my phone. There’s no electricity at the house, see, and I just thought –’

‘That’s no problem,’ she says, placing her hand on my arm to stop me gabbling. ‘I was just on my way back there.’

She pulls at my arm but I stay where I am.

‘What is it, Lisa?’

‘Well, it’s just your dad answered the door,’ I say, remembering the hostile look on his face. ‘And he was a bit off with me. I don’t think he wanted visitors.’

Her smile fades and she nods her head.

‘Oh, poor Dad,’ she says, looking over my shoulder in the direction of the house. ‘He’s not himself these days. He gets nervous over the slightest little thing.’

She leans towards me and a scent of cinnamon and clove floats across the air. It’s a Christmassy scent that propels me back to my childhood kitchen in Highgate where my dad would spend the autumn months religiously adding more ingredients to his legendary Christmas cake.

‘I’m attempting to make a Christmas pudding,’ she says, lifting up the carrier bag she is holding. ‘And I had to dash to town to get supplies. Though I think I’ve left it too late this year what with one thing and another. Still, you can never have too many cloves at Christmas, can you?’

‘They smell lovely,’ I say, rubbing my arms to warm myself up.

‘Oh, you’re freezing,’ she says with a frown. ‘Come on, let’s go up to the house and charge that phone for you. Dad will be having his nap now.’

I reluctantly follow her back to the house, hoping that she’s right and the old man is safely tucked up in bed. I can’t face another encounter with him.

‘It’s this way,’ says Isobel, unlocking a gate at the side of the house.

I follow her round to the back garden. I see a set of French doors up ahead. They remind me of the ones Mark had fitted in the kitchen. As we approach them an image blindsides me. A flash of glass, screams then sirens. I blink the memory away as Isobel slides the door open and we step into a very formal living room.