‘Right.’ He indicated his rucksack. ‘I’ve checked out of the guesthouse. Actually, I was chucked out of the guesthouse. Do you know if there’s anywhere else I can stay?’

Marnie considered for a moment. Then she switched off the car engine, got out of the car and began to walk down the road. In the absence of any other instructions, Will followed. It soon became obvious that they were heading towards the old caretaker’s cottage.

When they reached the gate, Marnie pushed it open and Will followed her down the path, treading the broken slabs that took them to the door beneath a small porch. The inverted horseshoe for good luck was still nailed in the apex of the gable, the same old wind-chimes still hung from the hook inside. Marnie opened the door, and he followed her over the threshold.

Will knew the cottage well. Back in the day, John would often send him across the road to fetch some tool or to give a message to Denise, or to pick up his sandwiches, wrapped ready in the fridge. Being here was like rereading an old book and recalling how a forgotten story had panned out. Will felt a tingle in his fingers. Here he was, in the place where Denise used to live, where Jesus looked down from the walls. If he was going to find confirmation that his theory about Denise and Alice was correct, it would be here.

He looked about him. The walls in the hall were painted a burned orange colour evocative of South American cantinas, which had been popular during the early nineties, brighter oblongs marking the places where Marnie’s school photographs used to hang; a picture for every year at primary school, her face gradually growing longer, gaps appearing in her teeth. If he narrowed his eyes, Will could still see the haze of cigarette smoke that used to hang just below the ceiling level, the coats on the hooks by the front door, and the folded newspaper on which John used to place his boots. He remembered the dustbin by the gate, a bouquet of flowers upended, stalks and Cellophane and a pink ribbon sticking from its mouth. And when he’d asked Denise she’d said they’d been delivered to the cottage by mistake.

‘Take them, if you like them,’ she’d said. ‘Give them to your mother.’

So he had.

Will followed Marnie into the kitchen where she lit the stove and leaned over its flickering flames, trying to warm her hands. Will watched her. The dog’s bed used to be there, next to the table, where everyone used to trip over him, hence his name.

‘Marnie, just so we’re clear, are you saying I can stay here?’ Will asked.

Without turning, she nodded.

‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’