Scratch. Just one barely there scratch, but it’s enough. Crossing the room almost at a run, my nerve endings taut and singing, I pick up the wrought-iron poker that sits in a set of fireside tools (another gift from Avó) on the hearth and angle my body so that my shoulder is under the chimney. And then I shove, upwards, quick and hard, swearing under my breath as the poker meets resistance. There is something up there, and I thank God that although the winter was long and wet, Rav had stuck to his guns on not lighting the fire too much until we could arrange for the chimney to be swept. A smattering of soot and ash, and grains of dirt tumble down into my face and I close my eyes, spluttering, before I push the poker up again. I am gentler this time, pushing it insistently into whatever is lodged there, wriggling the poker as more and more dirt and soot tips down onto my hair, my face, grit flying into my eyes. Coughing, I cover my mouth with a grey and dusty hand as I give the poker one last shove and whatever is blocking the chimney comes tumbling out onto the hearth, grey dust showering the hearth and floor in front. Leaning away from the mess, I cough, hard and sharp, my mouth feeling dry with grit. Finally able to catch my breath, I wipe my hand over my face and crouch down to inspect the detritus that has fallen from the chimney. There is nothing alive, thank God, I didn’t see anything scurry across the room and out of sight. Although what does lie in the heap of soot and dirt is not terribly reassuring either. Among the ash and the remnants of what looks like a nest of some sort, there is a tiny carcass, something that on first sight I think might be a bird. I snatch up a crayon, left on the coffee table by Mina, and poke gingerly at it. Tiny, bleached white bones, covered in soot and dust are tangled together and once I have prodded them and turned them using the crayon, I think that maybe it’s not a bird after all. A tiny squirrel perhaps. My eyes go back to the now silent chimney. A squirrel would make sense … maybe. Their tiny claws would definitely make a scrabbling noise, although I’m not sure how likely a squirrel would be hanging around a chimney pot. And how could a squirrel, so long dead he is only a set of bones, scratch at the inside of a chimney? But it is not the set of miniscule bones that set my teeth on edge. Rather, it’s the other item of any substance that has fallen out on to the hearth that makes my blood run cold.