Jamie went back inside and took Kirsty her Lemsip. She was asleep. This was going to be a crappy Sunday, what with Kirsty sick in bed. He looked around the flat. The housework needed doing, but he didn’t want to disturb Kirsty with the vacuum cleaner. That was his excuse, anyway. He decided to go up and see Mary, ask her about the rats. Maybe Lennon had a history of it.

He went up and knocked on the door. No answer. Shit. Maybe he should write her a note, or try again later. He sighed, pissed off that he was stuck indoors on a day like this, when it was so glorious outside and the sky was so blue. Still, if he had to be stuck indoors, he couldn’t think of a better place to be.

He turned to go down the stairs and then heard a noise out in the garden. He looked through the gap. Lucy was standing in the middle of the lawn, facing the house. She was holding Lennon, stroking his head and jiggling him a little, like a mother holding a baby. As Jamie watched, she walked inside with him and closed the door behind her.

Chapter Six

Six

Kirsty’s flu dragged on for the rest of the week. She was too ill to go to work so she carried the duvet into the living room and spent four days in front of the TV. Jamie went to work, phoning her a couple of times every day to check how she was feeling. She told him she felt like death, but, truth be told, she was quite enjoying her spell at home. Apart from the throat-shredding cough and the constant nose-blowing, she rather liked being the patient for once, groaning hoarse requests for cups of tea and medicine. During the days, she gorged herself on daytime TV and staggered around in her dressing gown, feeling wonderfully decadent and sluttish.

On Thursday afternoon, there was a knock at the door.

Kirsty, who had been flicking through the channels, trying to decide between a Jeremy Kyle repeat and an ancient episode of Morse, dragged herself to the door and opened it. The woman standing there had an anxious expression on her face.

‘Hello, I’m Mary.’ She offered her hand. ‘You must be Kirsty.’

Kirsty’s first concern was how awful she must look. She always hoped to look her best when meeting someone for the first time. She was a firm believer in the importance of initial impressions, and here she was with a red-raw nose, flaky skin, greasy hair and most probably the sour smell of someone who hasn’t left the house for days. Her second thought was, It’s the witch. Then she thought, She doesn’t look much like a witch – just a hippy, like Jamie said. All this flashed through her head in the second it took her to shake Mary’s hand.