‘I don’t want dosa.’ Rav grabs my hand again, more gently this time, and pulls me close to him, his arms wrapping around my waist. I lean against him, suddenly tired, breathing in the faint scent of the remains of yesterday’s deodorant and something vague and sleepy on his skin. ‘I want you to sleep, Al. I want you to rest, and I want you to stop freaking out about witches and spirits, OK? It’s a load of old nonsense, rumours, that’s all. The whole village plays on it.’

The village you brought us to, I think, but I nod my head against his chest. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry. I … I got carried away.’

‘Go up to bed, go on.’ Rav moves to the sink, fills the kettle. ‘You go up and get some sleep. I have to be up in an hour anyway, there’s no point in me going back to bed.’

‘Thank you.’ I say it quietly and wait until his back is turned before I slip my hand inside the bin and pick up the witch’s ladder, wrapping it in the blanket as I pass by the sitting room. Alone, in the bedroom, the baby snuffling in his cot, I slip the witch’s ladder into the drawer, alongside the bones and pearls, my lip curling involuntarily with distaste, before I fold the blanket and tuck it on top. Now the items are hidden from view, I feel safer. Climbing into bed, I toss things over in my mind: Tara, the blanket, Naomi, the bundle of tied hair and what it could all mean, but before I can make sense of any of it, a blackness descends, and I tumble down into sleep.