‘What happened to me? Those things, are they still …’ He stops speaking and stares at something over my shoulder. My pulse races as I turn my head, but apart from the flickering lamplight and the rain splattering against the window, nothing moves or makes a sound. Maybe he overheard Morgan saying that she could drive the demons out of him, but they would remain in the house. I could ask him, but of all the conversations I don’t want to have, it’s right at the top of my list.

Picking up a bowl with one hand, I reach for a spoon but it slips from my grasp, splashing me with lukewarm soup.

‘Are you going to eat that or wear it?’ he asks.

I smile. ‘You’ll be wearing it if you’re not careful.’

Something darts across the corner of my eye: a shadow that has no business moving by itself. Tom stares at the door, then back to me, and I know he saw it too.

‘What kind is it?’ he asks, his voice shaky.

I unglue my gaze from the door, realising he means the soup. ‘Tomato. Is that OK? I thought you liked it.’

‘Are you sure it’s not leak?’

A beat passes and then I get the joke. ‘Funny.’ I glance behind me, but nothing moves. At the same time, the darkness looks different. The pool of grey by the wardrobe appears denser, as if the shadows have gathered together. I blink, and it looks normal again.

‘Good job it’s not alphabet soup. Spill that and it could spell disaster.’

I smile, aware of what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to keep our attention on each other, hoping that if we don’t see what’s happening in the room then it can’t hurt us.

I pick up his spoon but he reaches out and stops me.

‘I can take it from here, thanks.’

His soft brown eyes look as anxious and trapped as I feel. A moment of pained understanding passes between us, and I look away and tut in mock anger.

‘Just eat it, would you.’

He peers into his bowl. ‘What’s left of it – the tide’s gone out in mine.’

As he eats, I notice his hand is trembling. He sees me looking and drops the spoon on the tray, then picks up the bowl and drinks from it. I think about reprimanding him for his table manners, but right now he could lick the soup off his fingers for all I care.

We finish eating and the silence is unbearable. If we’re talking, we can at least pretend everything’s normal. I ache to turn and look behind me, but that would mean admitting I know something’s there.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Are you OK after –’

We talk over one another and then stop.

‘You’ve been in bed for a day,’ I tell him.