Then she is so full of shame. It drums in her ears and leaks out of her tear ducts and flecks her mouth with spittle.

She stops running. Finds a tree. Stands with her back to the rough-edged bark and now she cannot stop what she does next. She curls her hand into a fighter’s fist, making sure her thumb stays on the outside of her second and third knuckles, exactly as she was taught. Then, at the thought of Scott’s flashing smile and icy eyes, at the thought of that woman’s hair shining so bright and gold, her arm stretched so long and thin across the rug, her wrist held, she pummels her thigh. Softly at first, like a drum. And soon enough she is thumping her leg, much harder this time, and imagining all her thoughts, all her feelings, being knocked out of her with every beat, like an old-fashioned washer woman pummelling the dirt out of fabric. Nice and clean, washed away and forgotten.

Soon her leg hurts so much she cannot thump it any more. Underneath her jogging bottoms she knows it will be pink where the flesh has been hammered, and that there will be a yellowish tea-wash stain behind that and that soon the pink patch will go purple and black before it too goes yellow tea-wash. She hammers and punches on the same spot because she is trying to stop something but it is a race she is losing and however much she tries to hold it back, she can’t: her mind ribbons out like it is being released into the wind, sharp claws at each ribbon’s end, thoughts and memories all searching for something, a clue and jigsaw piece, something to make her whole again.

Chapter 3

Hounslow, London

13 September 2003

Becky loves Saturdays. No school all day, and then another day just like it to collapse into after this one’s spent.