You know you looked for this, right? I’ve watched you, Sinéad, you can’t settle yourself on anything, look how I can begin and end a task, you just leave it high and dry, you do, you so absolutely do, and I think that you’ll never amount to anything, because first, you have to do what you need to do, shir here I am raising a girl in a household of lads, I’m responsible for you, you know that, what a big job that is, me, your father, and it’s a damn tough responsibility, I mean I’ve watched you out there on the pitch, and when you throw in the towel, it’s gone, it’s over, you don’t even fight it, I can’t believe how much competitive streak you lack, it’s a crying shame really, but you are indeed, solid fucken useless, and that’s all now I have to say on the matter. Ready us some tea, and for fuck sake, do it right, last time, you didn’t rinse out the teapot, the old tea leaves, still there, it was disgusting, so do it right this time, OK, and Sinéad, one last thing, will you stop biting down your nails? And let them grow long, they’re disgusting, look at your mother’s hands, how beautiful they are, though they’re not much good for anything else, but they are very lovely to look at, let yours grow as long. Though I doubt you’d have that in you either. Self-restraint. Doubtful.

Later that Friday night, without any Martinis, Alex sat beside me and stared at me for the evening, glassy-eyed, and so I finally did it. I told Father to fuck off. Direct language was best. Or I’d swap his voice for Alex’s reassuring timbre, until he took the hint. I wasn’t quite so convinced my own amateur version of cognitive therapy was going to be effective, but I could try. It was over. I couldn’t take it any more. Then finally, I’d think on the boys, their smiles, and their missing teeth. This was the end of it.

Sleep didn’t come, and I closed my eyes twice during the night, only to feel my throat close in and my head spin. Alex had fallen asleep by midnight on the returned chair, with his head on my bed. Shock made him sleep. Late that night, or by early morning, a phlebotomist with short wiry grey hair whisked in, and pretended not to want to disturb anything, yet she disturbed everything, even turning on the big lights over everyone’s bed.

‘You awake, love?’ she whispered with a long drawn-out sigh.

‘Yeah, yeah, I am,’ I said, hoarsely, accidentally imitating her, but it put us both at ease. Alex started on the bed, yawned and then darted his hand to my wedding ring, without opening his eyes. His hand fiddled with it and it fell off without coaxing.

I offered her the hinge of my elbow.

‘No, no, I’m afraid I’ll have to go in on the back of your hand again, love,’ she said, kindly, poking my hand with her gloved fingers. Its new black bruising covering the older bruises as they wilted on my skin. I no longer recognised my own hands. My wrists were childlike.