“’E done it to both of us,” said Holly. “Me step. Noel gorrit an’ all. From when we wuz tiny. We useter hide under ower beds together. An’ then Noel did it to me. Mind,” she said, suddenly earnest, “’e could be orlright, Noel. We wuz close and tha’ when we wuz little. Anyway,” her tone revealed a sense of double betrayal, “when ’e wor sixteen, he lef’ us to join the army.”

Robin, who had not meant to drink any more, picked up her wine and took a large slug. Holly’s second abuser had also been her ally against her first: the lesser of two evils.

“Bastard, he wor,” she said, and Robin could tell she meant the stepfather, not the twin who had abused her then disappeared abroad. “He had an accident at work when A was sixteen, though, an’ after tha’ A could manage ’im better. Industrial chemicals. Fucker. Couldn’t get it up after that. On so many painkillers an’ shit. An’ then ’e ’ad his stroke.”

The look of determined malice on Holly’s face told Robin exactly what kind of care the stepfather might have received at her hands.

“Fucker,” she said quietly.

“Have you received counseling at all?” Robin heard herself ask.

I do sound like a poncy southerner.

Holly snorted.

“Fuck, no. You’re the firs’ person A’ve ever told. S’pose you’ve heard a lot of stories like this?”

“Oh, yes,” said Robin. She owed Holly that.

“A told Noel, last time ’e come back,” said Holly, five pints to the bad now and slurring her words badly, “fuck off an’ stay away from us. You leave or A’m going to the p’lice about what you did to us before, an’ see what they think o’ that, after all these little girls keep sayin’ you’ve fiddled with ’em.”

The phrase turned the warm wine rancid in Robin’s mouth.

“Tha’s ’ow he lost the job in Manchester. Groped a thirteen-year-ould. Prob’bly the same in Market ’Arborough. ’E wouldn’ tell me why ’e was back, but A know ’e’ll’ve done summat like that again. ’E learned from the best,” said Holly. “So, could A sue?”

“I think,” said Robin, fearful of giving advice that would cause further damage to the wounded woman beside her, “that the police would probably be your best bet. Where is your brother?” she asked, desperate, now, to extract the information she wanted and leave.

“Dunno,” said Holly. “When A told ’im A’d go to the p’lice ’e wen’ beserk, bu’ then…”

She mumbled something indistinct, something in which the word “pension” was just audible.

He told her she could keep the pension if she didn’t go to the police.

So there she sat, drinking herself into an early grave with the money her brother had given her not to reveal his abuse. Holly knew he was almost certainly still “fiddling” with other young girls… had she ever known about Brittany’s accusation? Did she care? Or had the scar tissue grown so thick over her own wounds that it rendered her impervious to other little girls’ agony? She was still living in the house where it had all happened, with the front windows facing out on barbed wire and bricks… why hadn’t she run, Robin wondered. Why hadn’t she escaped, like Noel? Why stay in the house facing the high, blank wall?