She wanders through the house, struggling to remember how it used to be before those cheery, burly men packed everything into boxes and took it all away.

Sounds ricochet off bare surfaces. Shoes on the quarry tiles. Keys tossed on the work top. The latch on the larder door. Hostile. Inhospitable. And after tomorrow’s ‘deep clean’ that vaguely dirty smell which greets her whenever she opens the front door – coffee, garlic, toast – will be replaced by the wholesome anonymity of Domestos.

Things happened here. Momentous things. And things that weren’t in the least bit momentous. Clues are everywhere if she has the courage to look. The cup-hook in the ceiling. The pear-shaped stain on the stair carpet. The clothes peg, wedging the sash window. The mound of pebbles at the far end of the garden. Evidence of the lives (and lies) that once inhabited this house.

On the bedroom mantelpiece is a box she won’t be taking with her. Made of dark wood, it is the size of a house brick. The first time she lifted it she was shocked by its weight, its heft. Now she carries it through to the bathroom and perches on the edge of the bath. Over the weeks, a plan has been taking shape at the back of her mind and today it has elbowed its way to the front, testing and taunting.

She removes the lid of the box, revealing pale grey granules mixed with larger flakes. This would be the time to say something. ‘Shit to shit’ perhaps. Short and to the point. And yet, once spoken aloud the vindictive words might turn on her, damage her, and so she remains silent.

Start and there will be no going back. But it has to be done. Standing up, she tilts the box, watching her husband trickle into the lavatory, the noise of his hitting the water like oil hissing in a hot pan. He wasn’t a big man but the steady, slithering stream goes on forever.

The first flush has no effect, the ash remaining stubbornly in the pan, grey scum floating on the water. (Sand-filled knickers after a day at the beach should have taught her this would happen.)

Second flush – no better. If anything the stuff consolidates, taking on the appearance of black concrete. Hysteria bubbles beneath her breastbone, threatening to erupt as she imagines it setting and causing a blockage. Try explaining that to the plumber.

Taking the lavatory brush, she agitates her husband whilst simultaneously flushing. The cistern takes an interminable time to refill but she keeps at it, repeating the process half a dozen times, each time the mass in the pan reducing, reducing, until Sam Siskin is no more than a spoonful of sludge.