‘I’ll be over soon.’ Naomi’s voice is soothing in my ear, and I feel the adrenaline begin to drain, leaving me feeling weak and shaky. ‘Just … don’t do anything. Stay there, and I’ll be there as soon as I can, OK?’

I hang up and go to the front door, unlatching the lock and taking the chain off, before tentatively opening it the tiniest crack and peering out into the street. Fear whispers in my ear, drowning out the thud of my racing pulse as I peep out, sure that I will see something, someone watching from the shadows. But the street is empty, except for Charlotte Elliot, the barmaid from the pub, who raises a hand. I throw a wobbly smile in her direction and close the door again, heading for the stairs. The baby still sleeps, his eyelids moving rapidly as he dreams. I lay a hand on his chest, reassured to feel the fabric beneath my hand rising up and down, and move to the window to look out onto the garden, and the woods beyond.

Please be quick, Naomi, I whisper under my breath, my eyes fixed on the trees. There is no unusual movement, only the soft swaying of the branches as the wind ruffles through the leaves of the trees. My fingers are wrapped so tightly around the bundle of tissue that my nails dig into my palm and I open my hand to look closely at the bones. I had yanked them from the tree without stopping to think, the yarn fraying now in my hand as I turn them over to inspect them. They are bleached white, tied tightly together with garden twine, a small dark stain on the end of one bone. At first glance they could be finger bones, and I shudder inwardly, trying to tell myself that of course they’re not finger bones, probably chicken bones. But why? I turn them over and over, resisting the urge to wipe my fingers on the fabric of my jeans. Why would someone tie bones up in a tree? No matter how much I try and tell myself that it is just a prank, kids maybe, I can’t shake the feeling that there is more to it than a simple trick. It’s left a feeling behind, a dark, sinister feeling that winds its way round my legs like a cat, furry fingers slinking up my thighs, around my ribcage where they squeeze tightly.

I rewrap the bones, tucking the end of the tissue in tightly to leave no part of them exposed, and place it on the dressing table to show Naomi when she arrives. As I turn towards the door there is movement in the garden, and I step towards the window again.