Sam took a last drag of his cigarette before flicking the yellowed stump away with his thumb, watching it soar from the balcony to the carpark below.
‘Storm’s coming.’ He peered behind him into the gloomy flat, to the shadow furniture of settee and sideboard. ‘I said storm’s coming.’
‘I heard you.’ Mum was sitting where she always did, turned to the television, sound full up, remote control clenched in her hand.
The settee had moulded to her bowed back, the cushions to her hips. He’d thought about dispensing with a coffin when she died, of just pushing her further into the doughy folds.
‘What are we gonna do?’ said Sam.
The stormhead was black, bulging clouds ready to burst. It crept across the sun, swallowing light and heat.
‘What if it’s them?’ said Sam. ‘What if they’ve found us?’
There was a noise that might have been laughter. ‘No use running if it is,’ said Mum.
The wind blew chill across the estate, bringing with it petrol fumes from the motorway, the smell of rot from the bins below the window.
‘A storm’s coming,’ he said.