There was that yellow bird again. He could hear her singing. He went to the bottom of the staircase and looked up. There she was – pretty as always, noisy as always, perched on the window grill, looking through
the glass into the house – looking at him, Philippe.

His father had told him that was probably an illusion – it just seemed to be looking at him. It looked like it was looking at him.

But Philippe felt it was looking at him. He didn’t tell his father that: his father didn’t even like the word, ‘feeling’, let alone the feeling of feeling. He shook his head a little. He was confusing himself.

‘Doesn’t matter. Get the camera,’ he said to himself.

He wanted physical proof of the yellow bird. So far no-one else had seen it. His father was never at home in the daytime; the bai didn’t even seem to understand what he said – and she hated leaving the kitchen. The other bai, younger and more friendly, understood what he was talking about but worked all over the house and never managed to come in time to actually see it. She laughed. He got frustrated.