Monday 8 November
The wind tugs at Jimmy’s outsized jumper, sending chills down the back of his neck. The only building in sight is the old mansion house, with dawn’s first light reflecting off its perimeter wall. Exhaustion and the need for shelter carry Jimmy through its gates, taking cautious steps along the path. Naomi Vine sometimes leaves small food parcels for him on her doorstep, but it’s so early, she might hear him moving around and call the police. The shutters of the downstairs windows are all closed; it’s impossible to see inside. No sound is coming from the house, so she must still be asleep. Jimmy’s anxiety lingers when he finds the back door ajar, but it’s a relief to escape from the wind’s constant attack. A light shines at the end of the corridor, drawing him towards it. He feels certain his friend wouldn’t mind him taking a piece of bread from her kitchen, but footsteps suddenly ring from the walls.
Panic makes Jimmy scrabble for a hiding place. He shelters in a cupboard just in time, the space so confined that his arms press tight against his sides. Footsteps have been replaced by china shattering, and the sound of metal beating against a solid surface. The door reduces the voice outside to a drone of angry words. He listens hard but can’t tell whether the speaker is male or female. He recognises a few of the Cornish phrases his grandfather used, their Celtic intonation rising and falling. His body trembles when someone cries out in pain, fear rooting him to the spot. Jimmy closes his eyes and tries to picture swallows flying low over the island, twisting ribbons through the sky, but the scene refuses to take shape. All he can see is black air in front of his face while the vicious sounds continue.