Adele approached her mother’s front door hesitantly, noticing that it had also been subject to change. It had been painted, but as she drew nearer she realised that it was a bad paint job. The surface was lumpy and uneven as though someone had painted over the loose flakes of old paint without sanding down the door first. The dint two-thirds of the way up the front door was still there, too, although it had been painted over.

She recalled the night when her father had made that dint. They’d all been in bed when he returned from the pub without his key. He’d hammered away at the door until her mother woke up and rushed downstairs to answer it.

Ignoring the painful memories of her tormented childhood she lifted the knocker and tapped repeatedly. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest while she waited for her mother to answer.

The sight of her mother shocked her. In the last five years she had aged a lot; she now looked much older than her forty-five years. She had put on weight, and the buttons of her shabby, stained blouse were straining against her ample breasts and rotund stomach.

The weight gain showed in her face, too. She now had jowls, as well as crow’s feet around her eyes and deep lines on her forehead. The flesh on her face seemed to sag and her complexion was pallid. Adele noticed that her mother’s hair was still lank and hung limply about her shoulders but it was now streaked with grey.

Shirley visibly flinched when she saw her daughter. ‘Adele!’ was all she could say. Her reaction threw Adele and for a moment they both stood there speechless. Eventually Shirley swung the front door back. ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said and Adele followed her into the house.

As she walked through the hall the second thing Adele noticed was the familiar stench; cloying and unclean. But now it was suffused with the smell of cat urine. She felt herself gag as she walked into the living room, and quickly swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat.

Adele had mentally prepared herself for this moment. It was the room where she had killed her father over five years previously. She gazed over at the fireplace. The old rug on the hearth had been replaced with another tatty one, which was being occupied by a large ginger cat. Adele took a deep breath, trying not to think about her father’s battered head and the blood that had soaked through the old rug.

She caught her mother’s gaze and knew that she was thinking about what had happened, too. ‘Sit down. I-I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said.

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Adele, ‘but you go ahead.’