‘I swear to you, I’m not,’ I say as the cold blade presses harder into my skin. ‘I saw you everywhere I went. On buses and tube trains. Every little girl was you. You were the empty space that I could never fill. Don’t you understand? They took you from me. They ripped you out and sent you away. I had no choice.’

‘You tried to kill me,’ she says, her voice low and brooding.

‘I tried to kill myself,’ I say, choking back my tears. ‘Because I thought I had no choice. Your father didn’t want to know; Barbara thought I was bringing shame on her family; my parents were clueless. I was all alone and I needed help but there was no one around to give it. Surely you can understand that?’

The pressure of the knife eases a little. Her eyes are red. I try to show her with my eyes how much I care. I want to comfort her, to be her mum.

‘Julia?’ I whisper. ‘Julia, it’s okay.’

‘What about the letters?’ she says, her expression hardening.

‘Letters?’ I say, shaking my head. ‘What letters?’

‘I wrote letters to you almost every week from the care home,’ she says, glancing across to Barbara, whose head is slumped on the table.

‘Julia, I never received any letters,’ I say. ‘If I had it would have been the greatest thing, but I didn’t. And anyway, how would you have known where to send them?’

She looks across at Barbara again and then turns to me.

‘I sent them to her,’ she says, pointing at Barbara. ‘She promised she would pass them on to you.’

‘I promise, Julia, I never saw them.’

‘Of course I sent her the letters,’ says Barbara. ‘She’s lying to you.’

Julia looks at me. If I can just get through to her …

‘Julia, please,’ I cry. ‘You have to believe me. I didn’t receive any letters.’

‘I know you did. I saw the poem that I wrote to you. It’s in your flat.’

Then I remember. The poem I thought was Elspeth’s.

‘That was yours?’ I say, aghast.

‘You know it was mine,’ she cries. ‘How else would you have it?’

‘I told you. I found it in the lock-up.’

‘Yeah. Amongst your things.’

‘But I’d never seen it before,’ I say. ‘Please, Julia, you have to believe me.’

Julia doesn’t respond. She stands deathly still, her hands clasped round the knife. I look at Barbara.

‘Actually, Julia,’ I say, keeping my eyes firmly on Barbara, ‘I did receive one of the letters. It was posted through my letter box a couple of days ago, wasn’t it, Barbara?’

The older woman looks up at me, her eyes blazing with venom.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, taking a long slug of brandy.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ I say.