She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. ‘I was only three years old so I don’t remember. All I know is what Dad and Kirsty told me. Our mother was tired from looking after us and Tim had been screaming that he could see a white child but nobody else could see it. They thought it was just nightmares. Later, Dad said Kirsty used to tell us stories about the Pale Child and scare us – that’s why Tim was upset. Anyway, our mum fell asleep on the sofa. Tim got out of the front door and on to the lane outside …’

I pictured the overgrown front of Tony Nightingale’s house. The fence that blocked the route from the door to the lane. The peeling paint and neglect. I nodded at her to continue.

‘But it was my fault. Dad tried to say it was because Tim had seen the Pale Child, but I know everyone blamed me. That’s why I was sent away to Aunt Janet’s.’

So this was the three-year-old who’d fallen victim to the Pale Child: Bex’s twin.

‘How could it be your fault?’ I asked.

She looked at her red raw hands and grimaced. ‘I have no idea why I’m telling you all this.’

‘It’s okay, if you don’t want to talk.’

‘No, I do. It’s a relief. It’s been weighing me down forever. I … I liked to paint. I’d been messing about with hand-paint. Blue hand-paint. And later they found blue paint on the lock and the door handle.’

‘You opened the door?’

‘I only found out later. Kirsty told me. She said it wasn’t my fault. I was only three. But I know they blamed me. Everyone blamed me.’

‘That’s awful. Tim wandered into the road?’

‘Yes. He was wearing dark clothes. The driver didn’t stand a chance.’

I sensed a shadow over us and looked up. Tony, a smear of dirt on his cheek. He sank down beside Bex and folded her into a hug. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. ‘None of it was ever your fault.’

Bex accepted the hug but then pulled back. ‘It destroyed me, Dad. That you didn’t support me after the rape. I’d just about coped with you sending me away to live with Aunt Janet, but that …’

So Tony knew about the rape. He looked down and fiddled with a piece of grit on the floor. ‘I’m so sorry, Bex.’

‘First the rape,’ she said. ‘What message does that send? That I was a worthless piece of meat. And then to not be believed, to not be supported. Then you tried to force me to have an abortion even though you knew the baby was the only thing keeping me going, the only thing making me think there was a point to life.’