Helen’s head felt tight and hot. And strange. As if there was another tongue inside it, deep inside her brain, all squished up with rusty bits of iron and out-of-season conkers that had been stored there by a squirrel, perhaps working in conjunction with a magpie with low standards. In this economy it makes sense to share. And you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got. Helen sighed and rubbed her right eye. The left eye was still trained on the sandwich counter at Tesco, where she was trying to decide between Hoisin duck wrap and cheese and onion triangles.