Now, the girl was ensconced in front of the fire, her skin less ashen, the blueness leaving her lips. There was a moment in the car when she’d looked like a corpse. Then he was back there, dragged into the depths of the hell he had created for himself. Mumbling some excuse, he’d headed back into the shack, puking until he dry-heaved. It was then, through his watery eyes, that he saw the glint of silver. A saviour, calling out to him. Stepping away from the corner, he had answered the call, praying the silver hip flask was full. And oh, to feel the weight of it was enough to bring a tear to his eye. Twisting off the lid, he gave it a sniff before bringing it to his lips. The taste of the malt whisky was glorious, and he knocked it back, closing his eyes as he savoured each delicious drop. Only then, when the canister was empty, was he able to breathe.

Now the Ward woman was fussing around her stepdaughter, insisting on taking her to the hospital.

‘I’m OK,’ Morgan croaked as she lay beneath a featherdown duvet.

Joanne was prepared and had brought hot crusty bread and soup, along with having lit a fire in the hearth, but he had yet to hear the Ward woman utter a word of thanks.

A knock at the door brought her fussing to a halt.

‘Ed?’ she said, jumping up from Morgan’s side and heading to the hall to answer the door.

But it wasn’t Ed. Lloyd knew exactly who it was. He followed her out, ready to explain. Naomi looked the visitor up and down as he stood on the doorstep, the wind spiking his wisps of grey hair. He tugged off his coat and handed it to Lloyd. His bony frame was clothed in an ill-fitting suit, a thick knotted kipper tie around his neck. Without waiting to be invited, Wilfred walked inside. It was not his first visit to this house, and the way things were going, Lloyd reckoned it wouldn’t be his last.

‘Where is the girl?’ he said, his brown leather holdall clasped in one hand. He walked with a stoop, as you did in a house with such low-beamed ceilings.

‘She’s in the living room.’ Lloyd led the way into the centre of the house.

But the doctor’s presence added an eerie edge to Lloyd’s thoughts. The sofas, the cushions . . . it was different to before. But all he saw was the past. Grace in her wheelchair. Susan’s face, white with fear. Wilfred folding up his stethoscope, shaking his head. The night it all came to an end . . .

‘Excuse me, you can’t just . . .’ Naomi began to protest over Wilfred’s presence.

‘He’s the village doctor,’ Lloyd explained. ‘I called him.’