Jess swings back across the room and switches off the television that no one is watching. ‘Don’t know what they’re thinking, leaving you in the dark all day. What this house needs is sunlight. Lot of it.’

She pauses near the cabinet, the murky contents briefly snagging her attention. Under closer scrutiny, what resembled a collection of rubble becomes a scattering of broken artefacts. Archaeological evidence, fragments of ancient peoples that line several shelves: an amateur’s collection of potsherds, an array of corroded coins, beads made from brass, a weathered buckle or brooch featuring a spoked wheel or depiction of the sun, similar to the fanlight above the front door.

Her scrutiny drifts along the unlabelled artefacts until pausing upon a twisted, leathery object. A gnarled thing that resembles an ancient glove. A blackened hand-shape with several fingers missing.

Wincing in distaste and a little mystified as to why anyone would want such a thing on display in a living room, she returns to the wheelchair in which Flo stares aimlessly at the garden, her eyes blank. Kneeling at a safe distance, Jess takes cutlery from a napkin.

SMASH.

‘Christ!’ The plate is upended and the food that Jess has carefully prepared bounces and scatters about her legs.

Flo withdraws her hand and drops it on her lap. ‘Useless bitch!’

In shock at such ferocity from the elderly woman, Jess blinks her eyes rapidly. Her ears ring from the depth and force of her client’s voice.

Gingerly, she bends forward to pick up the articles of bread and salad strewn before the footplate of the chair.

The very moment she takes her eyes off her client a spitting sound issues wetly from above her head. And across her face a stream of lumpy saliva patters.

Near paralysed with shock, and now disgust, Jess does little but straighten her back and blink at the spittle lacing her forehead, one eyelid and cheek. She wipes the back of a hand across her eyes. Flo returns her agitated gaze to the garden and immediately calms.

Fists clenched and arms corded, Jess exerts all of her willpower to restrain herself from lashing out at the abusive spitter in the wheelchair. Face aquiver and bloodless, she rises to her feet and eyes the unused straps on the armrests and footplate of the wheelchair, before withdrawing from the room in silence, patting her cheek with a sleeve.

* * *

For the second time in one morning after crossing the threshold of Nerthus House, she’s back inside the kitchen, shaking with emotion. One side of her face is still bright red and the corresponding eye is watering.

She dabs the spittle from her face and fringe with a dish cloth. Once she’s removed as much as she can find, she yanks open the kitchen cupboards and discovers the shelves to be stocked with cheap, plain biscuits. ‘Might have known. Bloody biscuits.’