“Hey Mum, call me back as soon as you get this, yeah? I’ve got a bit of a… um… problem here. It’s this… well, you know the cat our new flatmate has? Turns out it’s a bit of a hunter. Yesterday when I got home from work there was this half-eaten starling on Jess’ pillow; it was super gross. Anyway, I just got in again, and—oh no you don’t—the bloody cat has been hunting again, and you won’t believe what it—ah, fuck! It’s not dead this time, either, which is why I, ah, why I’m calling. I need you to come over with your bird rescue stuff. Fast, if you can. Jess is working nights at the moment and David’s out of town, so I dunno who else to call… C’mere you little bastard…

“It’s an owl, by the way, did I say that? Yeah, this dipshit cat brought home a fucking barn owl. I don’t think it’s hurt—it’s flying, that’s for sure—but it’s mad as hell and like, hissing at me. Hey, don’t talk to me like that, dude, I’m trying to get you outta here! Seriously, Mum, what do I do with an angry owl on the bookcase? I have a mop, but it’s not helping me much. All I can do is, like, prod at it.

“Jesus, even the cat is scared of this thing. Why are you scared, Khan? You’re the one who thought that dragging an owl through the cat flap was a good idea. Honestly, Mum, I don’t know how he did it; it’s almost as—ack!—as big as he is. Dude! I know you’re pissed off, but it’s not my fault you can’t find the goddamn door! It’s right! Fucking! Oh shit There!

“Come on, Mum, where are you? Please pick up! The cat’s cornered under the coffee table and hissing at the owl, the owl’s hissing and flapping at both of us, and I have no idea what to do with this mop. Call me back and—no, don’t call back, just come over right away. Hopefully the owl won’t have—fuckoff—disembowelled and eaten us or anything. Goddamn, there are feathers and shit everywhere… Um, love you. Come soon. Bye. Now see here, you—“

To look around me, it would seem that nothing had changed. The world turns on, the autumn leaves again take on their russet hue, and even the lonely matriarch on the hill keeps an iron grip on the town. There is a crispness in the air that would in normal circumstances be comforting.

But tonight—tonight I cannot ignore the insidious chill. I sit alone—in the dark, on the hill, in my car—with the loss. It chokes me from the inside out, reaching up through my ribs to grasp at my throat. I can hear, in the distance, the sound of a radio. Young lovers have always come here to conduct their secret business; it seems they come here still. I used to smile at their furtive antics, the earnestness of them. But tonight, I am angered by them. I want them to go home—they should be with their families. Don’t they know that the world has been irreparably torn? Don’t they know? Don’t they care?

I start the car to go back to my own home. As I switch on the headlights, I catch the warning stripe of a skunk disappearing into the foliage.

An interlude between Miss Isabel Howard, aged 13, and her brother Jimmy, aged 15.

“Jimmy, how long is this going to take?”

“Longer if you keep moving like that, Bel.”

“It’s not my fault! I’ve got pins and needles running all down my leg.”

“Yes, and you’re the one who chose to sit like that.”

“It’s comfortable!”

“It was comfortable, you mean.”

“I don’t see why you have to draw me, Jim. Wouldn’t Mother prefer a drawing of Father, instead?”

“Probably, but I wouldn’t expect him to sit still either. Besides, this way it’s a gift from you, too. You don’t have one for her yet, do you?”

“…No.”

“Good, now stop scratching your nose and smile.”

“It itches!”

“Think about something else, then.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t care. I’m trying to make you look pleasant for Mother.”

“But I don’t look pleasant when I smile.”

“You’ll look pleasant enough when I’m done with you, I promise.”

“I won’t look like me, though.”

“Well, if you look that unpleasant, Mother won’t want an accurate portrait, will she?”

“Jimmy!”

“Yowch, that hurt!”

“Serves you right.”

“You know, just for that I might give you an ugly scowl instead.”

“Some birthday present that would be!”

“Bel, stop wriggling!”

“This is taking too long.”

“It’s only been ten minutes!”

“Are you sure? It feels like it’s been hours.”

“Very sure—the clock’s right behind you.”

“Ugh. Remind me to say no next time you ask me to sit for you.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?”

“I’ll just take a photograph and draw that.”

An interlude between Miss Isabel Howard, aged 16, and her brother Jimmy, aged 18.

“Jimmy! Jimmy, are you going out this afternoon?”

“Well, I was going to go post a letter to one of my friends who just joined up—“

“Perfect, you can post one for me too.”

“Really? I didn’t know you had any army friends. Ow!”

“There is no call to be rude, James Eustace Howard. Besides, this isn’t a personal letter. It’s business.”

“Now I’m even more perplexed. What sort of business does a sixteen-year-old girl have? And with whom?”

“Mother has discovered that a number of pieces of silver have gone missing, and asked me to look into it. She says that I am—and I quote—‘good at sticking my pretty little nose into things.’”

“She’s right. How many pieces are missing? Forty?”

“…No. Thirteen.”

“Unlucky, that.”

“You think you’re incredibly clever, don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. But to get back to the point—do you have any ideas about where the silver went? Or, perhaps more pertinently, does Mother?”

“She thinks Ellen took the pieces.”

“What, just because it’s her job to polish them?”

“Precisely because it’s her job to polish them.”

“I rather think Ellen is more clever than that.”

“So do I. I also caught Major Bathurst pocketing his neighbour’s spoon after dinner.”

“What? And you didn’t say anything? He left this morning!”

“If I’d said something while he was still here, he’d have made a scene, and Mother hates it when I cause scenes. I thought it would be more discreet to send him a letter after the fact advising him to return the silver or suffer the consequences.”

“My God, Bel, that’s blackmail!”

“No it isn’t! I’m not asking for money, just the return of our stolen goods.”

“Alright, it’s a short step away from blackmail. What consequences is the Major to suffer if he doesn’t pay up?”

“I’m still working out the details, but I did find this photograph in his coat pocket.”

“My goodness. Bel, I think I have a moral duty to remove this from your possession.”

The alarm sounds. The meows strike up. I lurch out of bed, put on my robe, open the door. The ritual begins. Jarvis, large and tabby, rushes to my wife’s bedside to receive some half-asleep pats. I bend down to reach Sophie, whose tiny tuxedoed body contains mighty lungs (currently being put to good use). His salutation done, Jarvis rushes past my feet, collecting Sophie behind him. At the kitchen they split up: Sophie goes in through the near door, while Jarvis trots through the lounge and dining room to enter the kitchen through the far door (he always goes through the far door before eating). I put the cats’ dishes on the bench. Jarvis’ plaintive falsetto harmonises with Sophie’s sharp commands. One scoop from the small bag for the small cat. She winds around my feet. One scoop from the big bag for the big cat. He re-enters the kitchen (from the far door, of course), having completed two or three laps through the hallway, lounge, dining room, and kitchen. He always runs laps before he eats—it is as though this time, in this kitchen, he will find his meal. He’s always right, eventually. I place the dishes on the floor, and the cats set to their breakfast with gusto, suddenly silent.