‘I was hoping Betty might come in for some food,’ Mum says. ‘I know she’s coming home each night, because her food bowl is empty every morning, but she’s only darting in and out, and never staying long enough for a cuddle.’

‘She’s always been a psycho cat, Mum,’ I say, opening the fridge and taking out the milk. ‘She doesn’t let anyone near her except you.’

I wouldn’t say Betty and I are good mates, but I like to think we respect each other. We both give each other space to go about our business and 35 have a healthy lack of trust in other people. Unlike Betty, I don’t try to rip people’s faces off if they get too close. I’d quite like to sometimes, though.

‘I miss her cuddles,’ says Mum. ‘I hope she’s not poorly.’ She rubs at her arms in the way she always does when she’s worried. There have been times when she’s left bruises. She picks up the kettle and starts pouring the hot water into her mug. And then something changes. There’s a faint sound all around us – so small and high pitched that I’m not sure if I’m imagining it. It lasts for two or three seconds and then stops, and once it’s gone, everything seems even quieter than before. I don’t know exactly how, but there’s a void where something used to be. It sounds mad, I know.

‘Did you hear that, Mum?’ I say.

She doesn’t answer; just keeps pouring. Her body is still, her eyes fixed on something I can’t see – an invisible spot in the air. Her mug fills and starts to overflow, water sloshing over the rim and all over the kitchen counter. But she keeps pouring.

‘Mum!’ I shout, watching the boiling liquid splash onto her dressing gown. It’s really thick and fluffy, so should protect her from being burned, but some spatters up into her face and she doesn’t 36 react. Not even a flinch. She just keeps pouring. I put down the milk and cross the kitchen as fast as I can. As I reach her, the water from the kettle trickles to a stop. Completely empty. And yet she carries on holding and tilting, not even noticing that there’s nothing coming out.