“I’m getting a bit more used to him. Or him to me.” I can hear his breathing down the phone. He will be lying on his back in bed now, probably with his eyes closed, his head on one side and the phone resting on his cheek. “Maybe it’s good for me.” He yawns. “Change is as good as a holiday and all that.”

“In that case I’d better start putting out feelers to work with other people when I get back—”

“God no! You’re too good. I’d never get you back, and my ego couldn’t cope with that. It’s fragile, you know.” I can almost hear his self-deprecating smile.

“Ah, so what’s sauce for the gander isn’t sauce for the goose, then?” I know I’m smiling myself. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed our banter.

“Absolutely correct. I’m not too proud to admit it.”

My roaming has taken me over by the oak. The branch that broke is lying on the ground now. It’s large, about the diameter of a soccer ball where it has splintered away from the tree. I kick at the ruptured end absentmindedly, and some of the dry, pale inner wood shears off. There’s something pale shimmering inside. “Still there?” Jonathan asks.

“Sorry. Yes.” I’m peering more closely at the inside of the branch now. “I should let you and your fragile ego get some sleep.” It looks like cotton wool, but . . .

“Night.”

“Night—Jesus!” The line goes dead as I jump back from the branch. It’s full of writhing white larvae, each at least a couple of inches long, their glistening bodies wriggling blindly over one another. Their skin is translucent, like uncooked prawns; one can infer movements beneath the membrane. They are from the dark, dank, fetid underbelly of the Manse, from the rot at its core; I can feel them crawling over me, through me, even though I know I’m not touching them, and then I can feel the flies again, tangled in my hair and crawling malevolently across my skin . . . Nausea begins to threaten my throat.

“Ailsa?” calls Carrie from beside the car, dragging my gaze round to her. “What is it? Ailsa?”

I’ve got a grip on my breathing, and my heart rate is slowing, but the nausea remains. I head back to the Golf, fighting down the bile. My forehead is clammy. “Sorry. Coming. There was . . . some kind of bug larvae or something in that dead branch.” I feel myself shuddering involuntarily. “Really gross, I have to say.” Carrie looks at me thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. I duck into the driver’s seat, thankful for the safety of the car around me, thankful for the process of preparing to drive, which means I don’t have to see Carrie watching me.

“Still no flights?” asks Carrie, peering out of the window.