The prison walls fell away and Molly was back in another small room, the hospice, sitting on that hard chair, watching her daughter die. Outside the birds were singing. Inside the small, overcrowded, slightly pungent hospice bedroom Molly Hayes was holding her daughter’s hand in hers. Light streamed through the window opposite, warming Molly’s face and hurting her tired eyes. Despite exhaustion she remained awake, eyes wide open and staring at her once-beautiful child, so unrecognisable and battling to breathe. Scattered around her and sleeping on chairs were the rest of Molly’s family and Marjorie. Their breathing in contrast to their dying baby sister’s, slow and steady. I love ya, Rabbit. I love ya. I love ya so much. Your mammy loves ya. Then she thought something, something she found difficult to recall and something she was deeply ashamed of: go on, Rabbit, just let go. She mumbled it: ‘Just let go.’ She wanted her daughter to let go, she needed her to because her back was sore, her hips and knees were stiff; she had a headache and a gnawing in her stomach. It had been hours of sitting, watching and waiting. Her head was fried. Her eyes were strained, every muscle screamed. She needed to get out of that room, to roam around, to stretch, to walk, to drink tea, to sleep, to live, to breathe, anything but sit there a moment longer. Just let go, she ordered her dying child. Just let go. And Rabbit obliged and gripped Molly’s hand, frightening the living shite out of her. She levitated off the chair. ‘Frigging fuckersticks,’ she mumbled under her breath and held her heart. When it resumed normal rhythm she steadied herself and leaned in towards her dying daughter.

‘Rabbit?’ she whispered. ‘Are you still with me, love?’

‘Have to catch the van, Ma,’ Rabbit said.