My legs won’t hold me a second longer. I collapse onto the bed while he stares at me like I’m the intruder.

‘Where’s my grandmother?’

He looks at me aghast, then says in a small voice, ‘I only know what I heard.’

‘Which is …? What? Just tell me!’

‘The woman who lived here is dead. Her funeral was last week.’

4

‘You’re a tough cookie. You’ll be OK.’ That’s what Dad said when he saw my eye. He might as well have patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘I can’t help you. You’re on your own, kiddo.’ Sitting on the bed, I pull the biscuits from my bag. I was going to share them with Mormor – my celebratory treat for making it here. For being a tough cookie.

She can’t be dead, she just can’t. Someone would have sent word to Mum; we would know! Or perhaps part of me did know, deep down. The thought is like a hand stirring murky waters, churning up mud and silt and allowing dark things to the surface. Tears stream down my face as I clench my hands into fists, crumbling the cookies to nothing. The world blurs to grey, everything gone but the ache in my chest.

Snot drips from my nose and I wipe it away with my sleeve. ‘How did she …?’

The boy glances behind me. ‘In her sleep, I think.’

I turn and gaze at the bed. Mormor’s colourful crocheted blanket looks painfully cheerful. Propped between two white pillows is the wonky heart-shaped cushion we made together when I was eight years old.

My grandmother died in the bed I’m sitting on.

I clasp my hand to my mouth. Mormor’s things look so pitiful without her: a metal hairbrush with strands of blonde hair on the wooden dressing table, a string of pearls draped over the mirror above, a blue shawl hanging from the door of her huge oak wardrobe. On her bedside table, a photo of me and Mum in a silver frame, a glass of water and an embroidery in a wooden hoop with a pair of scissors. It’s like she might walk back in at any minute.

I lean forward and yank open my rucksack. The boy jumps as I hurl my stuff at the floor. Pyjamas, jeans, trainers. My hands fly as if they don’t belong to me. Why did I wait? I could have booked the plane ticket weeks ago. I should have been here!

The boy holds out a tissue. I snatch it and blow my nose while he hovers in the doorway like a forlorn dark angel. His face is so unusual – a straight nose, full lips and striking cat-shaped eyes. He wears the strangest things: a waistcoat over a black striped shirt, tight black jeans slashed on the thigh like a creature has clawed him, and black boots with metal spikes up the sides.