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was more than a little deaf. It was also positioned just two metres from the sofa as her eyesight really wasn’t what it used to be.
    For the third time that morning, she listened to the news bulletin – to the only story that the shiny breakfast TV reporters had any interest in today. ‘Osama bin Laden, the Al-Qaeda leader and mastermind behind the September 11th attacks, is dead. He was shot in the early hours of this morning by US special forces, who raided his compound in the Pakistani town of Abbottabad. His body has already been buried at sea, in accordance with Muslim practice . . .’
    Bethan peered more closely at the television. A familiar picture of bin Laden, one finger raised up in the air, filled the screen. She felt a sour look cross her face. ‘Such a wicked man, Dandelion,’ she said out loud. On the bookshelf behind the television there was a photo of Gethin, staring out fiercely, with his splendid lamb-chop sideburns. ‘He always said so,’ she continued talking to her cat. ‘“You mark my words, Bethan lass,’’ he used to say. “Those Arabs, they’ll be more trouble than the blacks before long. Rivers of blood, lass, rivers of blood . . .” He knew what he was talking about, did my Gethin.’
    She had been sitting in exactly this seat ten years previously, watching the 9/11 attacks unfold on TV, and she had recalled Gethin’s foresight on that day too. Dandelion had been a kitten then, not the elderly clump of fur he had now become. The cat miaowed lazily as the TV cut to footage of the US President announcing bin Laden’s death to the world, but suddenly Bethan’s attention was diverted. Dandelion had cut short his miaow and jumped up onto her lap, and she could see something else on the television screen. Her own reflection stared dimly back at her in the glass, but she could also see the reflection of a second person. A tall man, standing behind the sofa. Thin. Dark skin. Dark hair. A slight stoop to his lanky shoulders.
    Bethan started and fumbled for the remote control, causing Dandelion to jump down to the floor as she located the mute button. Silence filled the room – a silence that was almost as oppressive as the noise it had replaced – and Bethan realized that she was flushed, that her heart was beating hard.
    ‘I do hope I didn’t alarm you, Mrs Jones,’ said a quiet voice behind her.
    It was an effort for Bethan to turn round, and she winced trying to do so. Immediately she felt light fingers on her shoulders.
    ‘Please, Mrs Jones,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t move on my account. I only popped in to say goodbye.’
    ‘Oh, Mr Ashe, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you . . .’
    ‘I did knock, Mrs Jones.’ The figure was walking round the side of the sofa.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure you did, Mr Ashe, I’m sure you did. My hearing’s not quite what it was, you know, and I was just catching up with the news . . .’
    Mr Ashe smiled. Only now did Bethan see that he was carrying a mug.
    ‘I’ve brought you a cup of hot Ribena, Mrs Jones. There was no milk for tea.’
    ‘Oh, bless you, Mr Ashe,’ she said as he placed the cup on a small table by the sofa intended for just that purpose. She patted the seat next to her, indicating that he should sit down, which he did. Dandelion immediately jumped onto Mr Ashe’s lap, where he curled up contentedly and purred as his ears were scratched by his long, well-manicured fingers.
    ‘They’ve caught that dreadful man.’
    ‘So I understand, Mrs Jones.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ashe? I’m a little hard of hearing, as you know.’
    ‘I under—’
    ‘Really, I don’t know how it’s taken them so long.’
    ‘So long, Mrs Jones?’
    ‘To catch him, Mr Ashe.’
    Mr Ashe gave a little shrug, as if to indicate that this was, for him too, a profound mystery. For the next two minutes they sat in silence, watching the mute pictures on the screen: the bland white compound in Pakistan, now surrounded by a collection of armed police, reporters