Martin was the first in the household to awaken; jarred rudely from his sleep before dawn by yet another childhood memory, this time of the Avian sort. Joan's rooster was typical of his kind; bombastic and self-important but thoroughly committed to his role as the harbinger of each new day. When it became clear that the cacophony was not going to abate, Martin groaned, stretched expansively, and extracted himself from the enveloping featheriness of the bed. He felt in desperate need of a shower and he was well aware of the idiosyncrasies of the cottage's plumbing. It was important to be first.

A private, shy young man, he had a horror of shared ablution facilities. The shower rooms at his boarding school had been the location of particular torment for him, and he was also very anxious to avoid any potentially embarrassing encounters with either of the two women that were sharing the only amenities. He took the towel from the end of the bed, his dressing gown from the back of the door, tucked his toilet bag under his arm, and slunk noiselessly along the hall, hoping fervently that the bathroom door had a functioning lock.

Like every other room in the house, the bathroom seemed to be frozen in time. When he was too small to reach the basin unassisted, Uncle Phil had constructed a sturdy little oak box for Martin to stand on. They'd spent the afternoon in the workshop and built it together. Well, rather, Phil had built it and Little Marty had hovered in the background, nervous of the tools but wielding a brush and dustpan conscientiously, cleaning up the sawdust and placing the offcuts in a basket for the oven. He'd watched, transfixed, as Phil had hand-cut the dovetail joints with such delicacy, and eased them together so that the box was rigid and firm.

And now he discovered that the same box was still in place, abeyant in the cavity underneath the basin. Martin crouched down. He ran his fingers gently across the lid and felt the subtle undulations where years of careless splashing had raised the grain of the oak, and watermarked the surface. He noted with satisfaction that the dovetails were still tight and a perfect fit. Pulling the box toward him, he opened the lid slowly. He had an idea of what might be inside it and he was not disappointed. A small blue and white tugboat with a faded red funnel, a one-eyed rubber duck, an elephant with a chewed ear and an incomplete set of colourful plastic cups, each decreasing in size. At the very bottom he found it; the paint had flaked from the tin somewhat, and there was an alarming dent midships, but the wild-eyed captain still clung on to the steering wheel with the same grim determination; his teeth clenched and his body rigid. And, to Martin's great relief, an oversized, rusty key still protruded from the stern of the clockwork motorboat.

Unable to suppress a smile of childish delight, he lifted it carefully from its hiding place, and sat it on the chair next to the bath. Relieved that he could complete his ablutions undisturbed, and carrying his prize, he made his way back to his room to dress.

Louisa was awakened by the sound of the running water and now she lay on her back, spreadeagled across the double bed, half awake and struggling to collect her thoughts. Trying to focus on yesterday's events, merely exacerbated the vagueness she felt and, even when she could bring her dad's face to mind, she didn't feel anything other than numb. The more she tried to concentrate, the worse it got. The numbness was more disconcerting than the shock and fear she felt yesterday afternoon.

Now, all she wanted was a shower and a change of clothes. She felt totally gross. Hearing signs of activity from downstairs, she slid reluctantly to the side of the bed, sat up on the edge and looked at her school uniform with distaste. A growing feeling of agitation and anxiety began to churn in her belly.

After cautiously checking that the hallway was clear, she ducked next door to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror and seeing her dishevelled appearance just made her feel helpless; she washed her face and did her best to smooth her hair but wet fingers were no substitute for a brush. It would just have to do.

When she walked into the kitchen, Mrs Norton and her nephew were again sitting at the table. He was cradling a small cup in his hands and obviously listening carefully to whatever his aunt was saying. Mrs Norton paused mid sentence and smiled sympathetically at Louisa who realised straight away that they'd been discussing her.

"Louisa, my dear, how are you?" Joan asked kindly. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

She gave a half smile and nodded. "Yes, please."

"Tea, toast, eggs?" Joan called over her shoulder as she made her way over to the stove.

"Lovely, thanks. Can I do anything?"

"No, you just sit down and talk to Martin, won't be a moment."

Martin groaned internally. He had been happy to agree to help Auntie Joan today, because it clearly was extenuating circumstances, but making conversation with distressed teenage girls at the breakfast table was all a bit much. But, he remembered his aunt's earlier threat, after she'd explained to him the dire circumstances the girl found herself in, that he must be patient and kind. He didn't like his chances on either count but he felt he ought to try.

He looked at her dishevelled uniform and decided that she really DID look like she had slept in her clothes. Her face was still very pale, and her eyes were tired and dark-ringed. He wondered if she might be anaemic. He should mention that later to Auntie Joan.

Louisa slid into a chair opposite him. She offered the same greeting that she and her friends reserved for boys of interest; a little upwards nod of the head, a slight smile, a longish glance.

"Alright?" She asked.

"Good morning, ummm, Louisa." Martin replied breezily. He'd decided that the best course of action, to cope with what was going to be an arduous day, was to adopt a strictly professional demeanour. "How are we feeling this morning? Sleep well?"

Before Louisa had a chance to answer, Joan handed them each a plate of scrambled eggs on toast. Moments later she was back with a mug of tea for Louisa.

"Enjoy." She said cheerfully. "I'm off to feed the chickens. Won't be long."

They sat and ate in awkward silence for a few moments before Louisa paused theatrically, her empty fork in mid air. She took a sip of tea and then she spoke:

"Why'd you call me Wheezer?"

Martin hesitated. He looked at her uncomfortably from under his brow, chin lowered, chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, he cleared his throat:

"I, umm, it was a long time ago. We, aah, we met and you...you...you told me your name was Wheezer."

"Oh." she said, sounding surprised. "Where did we meet?"

He scowled, and his expression became troubled. He opened his mouth to speak but then appeared to think better of it and closed it again.

"What?" she asked.

"Aaah. Nothing..." He said and he tried desperately to look away but she held his gaze.

"No, what?" Her tone was now quite insistent.

His eyes widened but he said nothing.

"Martin! Tell me!" She was glaring at him now and he could barely glance back at her, his expression one of severe discomfort.

"Umm, well, I... I...found you, aaah, abandoned in a ditch near Roscarrock Cove. You were...you were filthy...Very very dirty...and, ummm...and when we took you home, your mother was very drunk. There seemed...ummm...there was a party...ummm...lots of, aaah, rough looking men... she, ummm, she...well, no one really...no one had noticed you were gone."

Louisa looked back at him, her face a picture of sorrow. Her eyes were huge and sad, and tears had begun to well in them. He realised then that that was the expression that had haunted him and, once again, how helpless it had made him feel. Her lip trembled, and he noticed how shallow and rapid her breathing was. She looked completely devastated and he was terrified that she was about to sob.

She sat like that for what seemed to him like hours but was probably only minutes. He noticed that she began to bite her lip so savagely that he was concerned that she might break the skin. Her cheek twitched, and she closed her eyes. Then, out of nowhere, she gave a sudden, defiant toss of her head. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes and fixed him with an insolent stare.

"No need to sugar coat it, Martin." She said haughtily. "Everyone knows my mum was crap. So what?"

Totally confounded, he then watched as she stabbed her fork, viciously, into her breakfast and began to devour her scrambled eggs as if she hadn't eaten in days. And the whole time, chewing her meal, and sipping her tea, she never averted her eyes from his, as if she challenged him to look away.

With a sinking feeling, Martin realised it was going to be a long and difficult day.