The child gripping the ragged teddy bear sniffed quietly and wiped her eyes fiercely with one pyjama sleeve. Bewildered, she tried to whisper to her companion an explanation of what was happening in the room. But words, not as yet her strong suit, would not co-operate – and anyway, some deep-rooted instinct for self-preservation helped her to understand the need to avoid drawing attention to their presence behind the slightly open door. It was the first time she had seen an adult's blood. Though the teddy bear, elderly Mr John Saunders, had witnessed similar sights before. Long, long ago. And so he needed no explanation.

The bear had belonged to the child's mother. To her mother before that. He had been delicately sewn and re-sewn every time a rip had appeared in his furry brown coat. Was now reduced to only one functioning eye. Had been bandaged and smeared with medicinal cream so often that now there were matted areas of his coat that would never be fluffy again. Knew every variation of the phrase "I'm sorry". He was a part of the family all right. He knew the score.

The noises coming from the room grew louder. Words mingled with the sound of weeping. Perhaps something was knocked over. A woman's voice was saying "Please, No". Her daughter did not know the other words. She watched from behind the door in uneasy wonderment. But Mr John Saunders knew how it would all end.