And over by the back window – a table.

Definitely the sort of place you might put a bottle of medicine.

I balanced my mug on the edge of the worktop and went to investigate.

The table was completely covered. Bits of cutlery, old coins going green, orange-handled screwdrivers, an empty vase with a dark ring round its inside. Books, glasses, mugs, a hacksaw – and there, at the edge, a small brown medicine bottle. The trellicillin.

There was a window behind the table. Elsie was still in the garden, turning over leaves and squeezing grubs.

I picked up the bottle. Elsie P. Wetheral. Trellicillin. 250mg. Still almost full.

I looked back to check Mr Wetheral and his visitor were still in the front room – and stopped dead.

CHAPTER 10

Mr Wetheral dropped out of my mind. Elsie dropped out of my mind. Even the trellicillin dropped out of my mind.

Three paintings. On my left. On the kitchen wall.

I stared.

They were smaller than the usual portraits – just the head and shoulders. One was of a woman and the other two were girls, one a bit older than me, one a bit younger. Half of each face was as lifelike as any of Mr Wetheral’s paintings: lips that would squash under your finger if you pressed them, curled hair as deep and dark as burnt jam.

But the other half of each face was all wrong. The younger girl’s was patterned and criss-crossed and patchworked: the face of a rag doll. The older girl’s melted into the background of the painting: ear, hair and skin blending into the wall behind her. The woman’s face just stopped: a sharp line down the middle of her head so all you could see was the carved oak pattern on the back of her chair.

One side of each face was damaged, just like one side of Mr Wetheral’s face had been damaged by the fire.

He had a wife, and two daughters.

Screaming, they were.

Screaming and weeping.

I lifted my hands and touched my eyes, my nose, my mouth.

Soft. Smooth. Even.

It was wanderers that did it. They set his house alight.

Wanderers.

Una?

Her dad?

Could they really have done something like that?

CRASH!

My mug shattered on the floor – tea all over the place, the cat right above it on the worktop.

I stuffed the bottle into my shorts pocket.

The cat glared.

“Mother? Is everything all right?” Mr Wetheral came out of the painting room with his uneven steps. Strong foot, weak foot, strong foot, weak foot.

“Mr Wetheral, I—”

“Ah – Maggie Cruise.” He made his way through the hall. “I thought I heard someone at the door earlier. What was the crash? Is Mother OK?”

“She’s fine, yes. She’s in the garden. I’m just here for a forecast. The crash – it was my mug, and the cat. I’m sorry. Shall I clear it up?”