‘Don’t touch it,’ I say. ‘Can’t you feel it?’ Malevolence oozes from the twined hair, so thick I can almost taste it. It’s like a heavy shroud on my shoulders.

‘Feel it? Allie, it’s just some grubby trinket that some mad old woman has shoved up the chimney. There’s nothing to feel, and there won’t be anything to see in a minute.’ He snatches it up and a gasp sticks in my throat. I follow him through into the kitchen, Rav holding the witch’s ladder between finger and thumb, until he opens the pedal bin and tosses the hair inside.

He turns to face me, dusting his hands on his pyjama bottoms and I fancy I can see traces of black dancing across the fabric, the stain of the witch’s ladder. ‘Allie, what’s going on? I’m worried about you.’

‘Nothing,’ I say shortly, desperately averting my eyes from the bin. It’s as if the witch’s ladder is calling to me, a low tugging in my stomach. ‘Nothing is going on.’

‘It’s four thirty in the morning – you should be in bed, next to me, making the most of the fact that you have another two hours of uninterrupted sleep until Leo wakes for a feed, if you’re lucky.’ He cups my face with his hands, and I try not to flinch. I can smell the dust and dirt on his fingers. ‘I don’t understand why you’re down here, digging around in the chimney. I don’t know what’s going on with you.’

Just not quite right. I recall Naomi’s words to him. ‘I’m fine, Rav.’ I pull away from him, opening a nearby cupboard and pulling out a frying pan. ‘I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I came downstairs and I heard the scratching and I thought I would sort it. I’ve been waiting for months for you to call the chimney sweep and get the chimney done and you’ve always been too busy. Nothing more than that. You don’t need to worry.’

Rav comes to stand in front of me, still not content to let things go. ‘You could have just called a chimney sweep, instead of waking the whole house up.’ His tone is brusque, his impatience impossible to hide. ‘Allie, you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t start sleeping.’

‘I am sleeping. I’m sleeping in the day, when Mina is at school and the baby naps,’ I lie, reaching for the olive oil.

‘What are you doing?’ Rav grabs me by the wrist, shocking me into stillness. I look down at his fingers, tanned and strong, wrapped around my pale wrist and he drops it, looking away.

‘I’m making you dosa.’ I splash oil into the pan. ‘Your mum left you spiced potatoes, she said I was to make you dosa for breakfast.’