I stagger through Sunday morning, hungover and miserable, keeping to the sanctuary of my study or reading in my bedroom. I listen to Tim and Cora’s movements, the little conversation they have, the hum of the radio or television, footsteps, the clink of cutlery; sounds that once upon a time meant Nick was downstairs. At lunch they go out to visit friends and I come downstairs to root around the cupboards and fridge for comfort food, hoping to feel relief, but feeling weird in the empty house. I give myself small jobs: I wander round with a damp cloth dipped in washing-up liquid, cleaning the finger marks off the light switches; I put on a wash; I go through my diary for the next week; I finish typing up an inventory that should have been in on Friday; I take Toffee for a walk, driving to a park a couple of miles away so that I don’t bump into anyone I know. I feel like I did when my grandmother died. Dumb with misery.

That evening, I find Cora sitting white-faced on my sofa, a photograph of Nick in her hand. This is real. Her son may not come back. For the first time, I feel genuine sympathy for her. We are both in pain. I wouldn’t wish this situation on my worst enemy.

I sit down beside her and reach out, my hand hovering above hers before taking it. We never touch each other; the closest we’ve ever come is an air-kiss. It feels unnatural, and unnerving.

‘He’ll come home,’ I say.

She drags her hand out from under mine and wedges it between her knees. ‘He’s all we have.’

Her tone of voice is odd, and I can’t help wondering if there’s a double meaning to her words. I think about the money that’s been leaving Nick’s bank account for God only knows how many years. He is all they have between them and what? Losing their home? Destitution? I have no idea how desperate they really are.

NICK

July 2000

HIS BODY FEELS HEAVY. HE SHAKES HIS HANDS, MOVES every limb to unlock his joints, then crawls out of the eaves space and crouches at the top of the stairs listening to the house. He hears Rory squeal with laughter, and thudding footsteps. Then he frowns and touches his lips, the wisps of his dream dissipating to reveal which parts were real. Izzy kissed him while he slept. Shit.