The meadowgrass was flattened in a channel winding up to the front door. He dug the keys out of his pocket, hooked his sopping sunhat on the nail he’d hammered in above the window. It was days like this, when he was feeling low and sore all over, that he wished he had a pet – a cat to rub itself against his ankles, or maybe just a goldfish who could press its lips up to the tank. But as he sat and pulled his boots off on the step, he thought of Maureen Bull, imagining her plating up her husband’s supper about now, bringing him his pipe and slippers. What a waste of a good woman. He went inside and let the coolness of the lino soothe his bunions.

There was water in the kettle, flakes of limescale. While it boiled, he rummaged in his cupboards for the pint of knock-off whisky he’d mislaid – there had to be one bottle lurking somewhere in the place that he could finish off – but all he found were cans of soup and pilchards. He rolled a cigarette and lit it on the stove. He leaned against the door frame, trying to remember to be grateful for the things he had.

From where he stood, there wasn’t much to look at. A quaking of the drizzle as the wind got up. The swirl of branches miles away. He drank his tea and savoured it. A peace began to find him, spreading through the tightness in his back. He doused his ciggie in the sink and went to fold the table down to make room for his bed. If he couldn’t drink, then he could sleep. As he was laying out the cushions on the boards, he heard a noise behind him. Heavy. The whole floor seemed to wobble, creaking. Before he’d even turned to look, he felt the knowing in him. His bones went soft with it. The blood sunk to his feet.

He recognized the fella, the enormous frame of him, the jelly gut, the messy beard. So then. All this time, his intuition had been off, distracted by the youngsters. He was cornered now, and helpless, calling, ‘Piss off! What in God’s name d’you think you’re doing? You can’t just barge in here –’ He barrelled on, in the hope that he might hold off what was coming to him. But he couldn’t keep the fright from weakening his voice.

The stranger put a finger to his lips. He was wearing winter gloves. ‘Save your breath,’ he said, almost a whisper. ‘Rumour has it you’ve been nosing round in things you shouldn’t.’ He could barely stand up straight inside the caravan. His bald head grazed the ceiling as he took a forward stride. Looking round the place, he said, ‘It’s nice in here. You keep it neat and tidy, don’t you? Shame you didn’t park it fifty miles away.’ There was a wire hanger in his fist. Tap, tap, tap it went against his open palm, and Hollis knew.