‘She used to walk me to school and we’d pass this particular shop and this was in the window. Years ago, when she was still at home, she must have only been about fourteen. She thought it was so pretty, so I saved up all my pocket money in secret. I kept worrying that someone else would buy it before I could. That was the year before it all started, really, before everything went so…She was so nice up to then, I wanted to give her something special, because as well as being my big sister, she was my best friend, too. And then it all changed, there was this really awful crowd of kids she got in with…She used to tell lies all the time about where she’d been…Oh, poor Mum and Dad, the things she put them through!’

With an effort she regained control, making her face impassive again, and returned briskly to the task of packing.

‘We’re storing all this stuff of hers at home as usual,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Until the next time. I’ve lost count of the number of times…Oh, why does she buy these terrible clothes? She can’t possibly want this thing!’ She held up the silver lace shirt Angie had been wearing the first time Seymour had met her, and it seemed now to have no connection with the reality of everyday living. It seemed garishly out of context, like something that belonged to a theatre stage. ‘I’d better not throw it out,’ Lynne muttered. ‘She remembers all the clothes she owns, sometimes months later just when you think she’s forgotten all about them.’ Her glance kept returning to the fragile little cup and saucer which she’d placed so softly in the centre of the bed, and suddenly she stopped what she was doing and sat down and covered her face with her hands.

Her emotion raged as wildly as a flame. Even though it was soon brought under control, Seymour was shaken by its intensity. His mother’s sadness always manifested itself as long rambling vocal complaints, needing only patience from the onlooker. He didn’t know how to help someone seared by such a profound grief as Lynne’s and stood by helplessly.

‘I don’t usually cry about it,’ she said, angrily dabbing at her eyes. ‘It’s so useless. Goodness, if I blubbed about it every time, I’d never get anything else done. It’s been going on for so damned long. You can’t cry that long over someone, no matter how much you love them…how much you used to love them, can you? Five whole years, that’s how long she’s been on drugs…’