Helen goes cautiously toward the fish tank. Leaning in, she looks into what she realises now is a bona fide mouse hole. Although the animal doesn’t appear, she can hear it faffing around, drumming the cardboard with its paws, chewing on something that makes a flicking sound. The lonely creature is likely frightened, stranded there in a sitting room on Westminster Crescent, unaware there is someone listening, someone watching beyond the small, dark place it has come to live out the last of its days.
