Claire stopped paying for Patience, and Patience remained. Life had a different rhythm now. Claire still visited her mother after work, and sometimes in the mornings, too, but it wasn’t required. They ate together. Patience cooked. Afterwards, the dishes were gleaming, the hobs wiped, the counters bare. Patience had even put the tea towel in the wash and hung a clean one from a hook. The bird feeders, then – Claire could fill those. She got the sack of seed and went out on to the patio, but of course the feeders were already replenished, a shower of kernels on the flags beneath. Or had she done it herself already? Had she spilled? The sacks were always splitting.

‘Here,’ said Patience, coming up behind her, ‘why don’t you just relax? I have brought you another glass of wine.’

It was her mother’s Chardonnay. Patience had been ordering extra bottles and stowing them in the garage, on the cold stone floor. Even the glass was chilled.

‘You think of everything,’ Claire said. ‘I suppose you know what I’m going to do next.’

‘No, Claire. Nobody knows that.’

‘But you could guess?’

‘Of course. You have challenged me to predict your behaviour, which means you will probably do something deliberately unpredictable, such as eating a handful of birdseed off the ground.’

‘Wrong! I’m going to finish this glass of wine.’

Claire drank it, fast. A cold hand reached down her throat and into her stomach. Patience watched with what seemed like disapproval.

‘Oh relax,’ Claire said. ‘It’s Friday. Everyone’s having a drink. It’s what we do.’

She sat down on the bench from which her mother watched the birds when the weather was good. There were no birds around now, obviously. It was night-time, getting late. Probably she would sleep here, in the spare room. She had done that a few times lately, getting Patience to make up the bed. Her own flat was depressing. Even the mattress felt damp.

‘Patience?’

‘Yes?’

‘That suitcase you brought with you. What have you got in there?’

It was obvious once she’d framed the question, even before Patience replied. Nothing. There was nothing in the case. Patience had just carried it to seem more human when she first arrived.

THE MAN IN ROOM SIX

I knocked gently. When there was no reply, I knocked again.

‘Come in …’ An English voice.

I clamped the hot water bottle under my arm and opened the door. It was gloomy in there, one lamp shining weakly under a flowered shade. The man was lying down, though not completely: his shoulders and head were propped against the headboard. He was wearing a collared shirt and tie. His legs were stretched out in front of him. He still had his shoes on. My mother would have told him to take them off.

‘Who’s this, then?’ the Englishman said. ‘I was expecting your Mum. She is your Mum, isn’t she?’

I nodded.