For the last fortnight she’s said nothing as I’ve handed her beans on toast, spaghetti on toast, cheese on toast, night after night. She says nothing, chews on a corner, leaves the rest. Since the night he went, we’ve eaten our tea on our laps, in front of the television. And we do not watch the news.

I almost pour the tea into the mug he bought for her, years ago – the one with ‘World’s Best Mum’ on the side. When I say he bought it, I mean of course that I got it, and said it was a gift from him on Mother’s Day. He must have been about six. She looked pleased, but she never used it. Kathryn doesn’t go in for that sort of thing, slogans.

I jerk the spout away so quickly the tea burns my hand. Then she’s there, standing beside me in the kitchen, wearing the brown skirt and the blue jumper. She’s put some earrings in.

‘You’ve got earrings in,’ I say, pushing the mug behind the teapot.

‘I’ll take them out,’ she says, quickly, before I can tell her that I like them. ‘It was a mistake. What was I thinking? Earrings.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Tea.’

Eleven o’clock. The car arrives in plenty of time for the service. We stand in the hallway. I am wearing my only black suit; it’s a bit tight round the waist. It’s all right, though, because I’ve put a belt round and left the top button undone. I hold out Kathryn’s wool coat. She slips her arms into it, and I heave it onto her shoulders. I button it right to the top; the collar is so high it’s like I’m tucking her neck into it. I comb her hair, which sticks out above her right ear. The ends of it look frazzled, as if they’ve been burnt.

‘Have you got any spray?’ I ask.

She looks at me. ‘Spray?’

‘For your hair.’

‘No,’ she says.

‘A hat then.’

‘I’ve never had a hat.’

‘Oh. Right then.’ I smooth the shoulders of her coat. ‘You’ll do,’ I say.

She reaches past me and opens the door. Outside, a blast of wind brings water to my eyes as I hurry to keep up with her, to keep hold of her herringboned elbow.

Joanna

Christmas, 1985

I know Shane’s not coming. I sit on the seat of the twitchers. I know he’s not coming. But I wait. I grip the seat until my fingers go dead, and I wait for him.

Pink hoop earrings, pink pencil skirt. I’m ready, should he stride past, Walkman blasting. I’m ready, but I know he won’t come. No one’s seen him since that night. Not even me.

Rooks scream in the spiky trees. Everything’s frozen, even the air. It bursts in my lungs when I inhale.

The only thing moving is the steam in the sky. It coughs out of the power station cooling towers. It never stops.

I stretch my fingers out and let the blood flow back. Then I grip the seat again.