Lizzie writes a letter to Luke while she waits for Rowdy. It says sorry and not much else. She doesn’t have anything else to give him. She never did: all she ever did was take. She was a leech, sucking blood, drawing what she needed from him. The oldest form of medicine. She tells him it was all her, not him. Forces herself to underline it. ‘You are perfect,’ she scrawls, in shaking script, unable to hold the pen steady. She licks the envelope and thinks about putting money in for the football boots, but doesn’t because she’s hurt Luke enough in every way. She can’t do that to him too.

Once the letter is written, Lizzie turns to the packing. There isn’t much to take. All she has are the contents of the small bag she and Lenny arrived with. The bracelets and scarves don’t belong to her. They belong to the Lizzie she created, so she leaves them all neatly laid out, like evidence, on the stripped bed.

Lenny had put up a couple of posters, which she takes down and rolls carefully. He has his football boots with him, takes them everywhere, and Lizzie hopes he’ll be able to keep them.

When she hears the doorbell ring, she makes her way downstairs, adding to the scuffs on the carpet one last time.

‘Would you like me to sit in with you?’ Tess is desperate to know the details Lizzie has never told her. Wants to join the dots and see what picture they make. Lizzie is too tired to protest and simply nods.

‘Wonderful. I’ll make tea.’

Lizzie and Rowdy sit in the office, listening to Tess clatter with cups and saucers. Every time they make eye contact, Rowdy smiles at Lizzie. It’s a reassuring smile, like everything’s going to be okay. Lizzie doesn’t smile back because it isn’t. When Tess finally comes in with the tray, Lizzie grabs the mug and relishes the way it scalds her. She gulps at the steaming tea, chasing the burn.

When she looks up from the empty cup, Tess and Rowdy seem slightly alarmed. Good. Best to warn them, prepare them for what’s to come.

‘Okay, Lizzie. Are you ready?’ Rowdy’s smile is bright as she clicks record on her device and sets it carefully on the table between them. Tess squeezes her hand and Lizzie lets her. Then she starts talking.

George

(Not ruddy likely, George)

THE FIRST WISDEN CRICKET magazine had arrived a week after Ellen died. No letter, just a thick glossy pamphlet that landed on the mat with a heavy clunk. George had ignored the package, assuming it was Ellen’s People’s Friend or some other shite. Poppy had pissed on it soon afterwards and it had been tossed into the bin.