Darren Fletcher's house.

Helen Wallis is my stalker. On my walk today, I texted and asked her about a nightclub in Sale that I’d passed. She asked what I was doing in Sale, and I explained that I was walking to Dunham Massey. And then who should I run into there? Yes, Helen Wallis. She’d brought Max along as an alibi, but I knew her game, the viper! I’ve never heard anything quite like the sound of skimming chunks of ice over a frozen pond. It was like a bird singing through a vocoder as it flew overhead, or a rattling tin of jumping beans running away through a tunnel. It echoed, distant, and mechanical. We ate freshly baked scones with cream and jam, a perfect treat given the crispness of the day. We drove back past Darren Fletcher’s house. It’s horrible.