Katie stared at him in amazement. The boy that had seen his father standing over the mangled body of the dog he loved, a bloody shovel in his hand, was now staring at her with accusing eyes. How had she suddenly become the traitor? It was maybe time to serve her mixed-up son some harsh reality.

There was plenty of it outside. She spoke as softly as she could. A useless attempt to smooth the edges of the hideous words she formed. ‘Billy. He killed Bart.’

Billy opened his mouth and wailed. He staggered back from her and stood against the wall.

‘Billy!’

He stared at her for an age, his mouth a tiny O, then suddenly, like a grown man controlling grief at a funeral, composed himself again. He spoke as gently as she had. ‘He didn’t kill Bart, Mom. He was helping him.’ Billy turned and walked from the room, and from upstairs a cry announced that Jess was awake.

Katie stood silently in the room for a moment, contemplating the madness and confusion that was her life. Craig was right. She knew nothing any more. Nothing. The doorbell rang and Katie walked out of the room past the front door, and climbed the stairs to fetch her daughter.

The darkness in his house had been profound when Craig opened the front door and stepped into the lobby. Dawn’s light was thin and grey through the falling snow, nowhere near strong enough to pierce the black that the drawn curtains in the lobby created, curtains he had drawn nights ago and forgotten about. But that was his life now. A neglected shelter, not a home.

He flicked on the small lamp by the door and dropped his keys on the table. Just a shower and then he’d get back to the detachment. He felt empty and sore, as though something sharp had been scooping out the inside of his head. No sleep, that’s what it was. But he’d worked plenty with no sleep. This was different. He moved through to the kitchen and opened the ice-box in the dark. The door opened and lit up his face. A mouldy slice of pie glared out at him. Craig sighed and reached for the freezer compartment. It was solid.

When he comes it is winter, for he is of rock and ice.

The words Katie had read out in that serious monotone were still clinging to the hollow thing that used to be his brain. He stared at the frosty white skin clinging to the freezer box, clustering in defiant pillows round the plastic door making it impossible to open.

The sight of his form is too terrible to bear.

He rubbed his face with a hand, trying to erase all the craziness, trying only to think of food and the glorious effect washing would have on his tired body.

The rock can hold him and the ice can make him.