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Knock.

Knock.

The knocks were slower and louder in memory, like a Victorian ghost story, like the Ghost of fucking Christmas Yet-to-Come.

Jesus, I thought.

Sometimes, my brain won’t let me have anything.

A little way up the street, one of the boys had picked up one of the girls and was running off through the rain with her – ‘Fuck off, Craig! Craig, fuck off, you fucking, fucking . . .’ she screamed, punching him but not really punching him, as the others trailed behind, laughing.

I smiled and dug my hands into my pockets.

He didn’t dance me off a cliff. He did that to you. That’s what I’d said to Sophie.

Fucking hell.

I felt the familiar fluttering in the back of my mind, the old memories stirring again. You could tell her, said their fat, furry bodies and the bat, bat, bat of their dry, leafy wings in the dark. You could tell her, you could tell her, you could tell her, you could tell her.

After all these years, they still hadn’t given up on their freedom.

I scribbled my fingers through my wet hair to shut them up.