‘Hello, love,’ he says, as she walks through the door. She still isn’t used to this change in Patrick’s attitude, and she tries to keep the suspicion from her smile. Maureen helps her take her coat off and indicates for her to sit down. Patrick folds his newspaper and puts it on the table beside his knife and fork.

‘Good day at work?’ he asks.

‘Oh, you know, same old.’

He nods.

‘You didn’t see my mate then?’

‘Now, here we are,’ Maureen says, interrupting and bringing two plates to the table. She puts Chloe’s down first, the same plate that she has been giving her for the last couple of weeks. It’s slightly smaller than the one Patrick has, and the fish fingers vie for space with the rabbits.

‘Your favourite,’ Maureen says, then stands back as if awaiting Chloe’s reaction.

She looks down at the plate of fish fingers, mash and peas, and then back at Maureen.

‘Of course, ketchup,’ Maureen says, tipping the bottle this way and that and putting it on the table beside her.

Chloe stares at her dinner. ‘This looks lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

Maureen smiles, bringing her own plate from the worktop. ‘That’s quite all right, Chloe, love. I thought we could try some of the old stuff, in case it brings anything back to you.’

‘Oh,’ Chloe says. ‘Oh, right, yes, of course.’

Chloe picks up the cutlery – the blunt knife, a fork with three tines. She hesitates for a second, watching how easily Maureen and Patrick tuck in with cutlery that fits their hands more appropriately. Chloe glances down at the child’s cutlery in her own hands, and then back at the Kyles. They eat, oblivious, as if no one has noticed the absurdity of the situation.

‘This takes me back,’ Maureen says, putting another forkful into her mouth with a smile.

Chloe tentatively tries a small mouthful of food.

‘That’s it,’ Maureen says. ‘Eat up.’

After dinner, Chloe goes upstairs to change. She’s grateful to be back in the sanctuary of her room. But as she lies down on the bed, she feels something uncomfortable under her neck. She fishes one arm behind her, onto the pillow, and pulls out Puss – Angie’s cloth cat. She nearly drops it in surprise. She sits up quickly, looking this way and that.

‘Who put thi . . .?’ she says to no one but Puss.

But she knows. Isn’t it obvious?

She lies on her bed until the room turns black. She’s grateful for the darkness that engulfs her. She holds Puss across her belly. Only then she hears Maureen calling to her from downstairs. She shuffles out onto the landing; the light is on and it makes her blink.

Maureen stands at the bottom of the stairs with a pile of photo albums.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘I thought this might help.’