I’ve never really understood people’s reactions in moments of fear. When I was a child and had one of my nightmares I never suffered from any compulsion to run into my mother’s bedroom and snuggle down with her in some warm, perfume-scented cocoon. The notion never occurred. I would just lay there. I’d pant sometimes, until I got my breath back. But I would never pull the covers over my head. I simply waited for the fear to go. Mother would have been little use in a crisis anyways, and there was little chance that she’d be the only inhabitant of her bed. She never lacked company.

So when I saw the footprints by my bed there was never any question of dashing from the bedroom and running for help. Where would I even go? The nearest house was further up the hill, and I’d barely exchanged three minutes of conversation with the occupants since moving in. The Parkers. They had cows and sheep and some time ago they had asked if they could use a field that belonged to my house as rough pasture for a new breed they had invested in. Were willing to pay. I’d said yes because I could see no merit in saying no, and the money they paid in advance was a handy little extra on top of the monthly allowance my husband wired the post office on the third of each month. I’d managed to save a decent sum. I don’t know whether I’d begun to think of it as my escape money by that point. That would come later.

It was Mrs Parker who had come to make the enquiry. A small woman of around fifty years old, she wore her smile like a poorly-fitting shoe. She was all teeth and creases. I’d answered the door with Stefan on my hip and she had barely glanced at him. That had set me off immediately. How could she not want to fuss him? How could she not long to wrench him from my arms and cuddle him close; make him giggle with tickles and clucks and pretend to eat his fat little legs like an uncooked loaf?