Petra felt stung. She’d like to think it was because she was defensive of Vincent’s honour, but the truth was that Olivia had voiced a suspicion she’d uncharitably harboured herself. ‘Anyway, I’ve got nothing against Worthing.’ A spineless attempt to extricate herself from the whole business.

‘Really? You took an instant disliking to him. He symbolises so much unwarranted pain. He defines your own exclusion, your serfdom, your pointlessness. You think you deserve more, just because of who you are, where you come from, but you have nothing. It seethes in you, that loathing. You don’t admit it, but I suspect it will be released soon.’

‘Nonsense. I don’t seethe. I never had any deep feelings about it.’

‘If you say so.’

It was as if Olivia was fingering her way into the seam of her soul and ripping it open. Now that it was exposed to the light, Petra realised the truth. This bitterness had been in her all along; she’d been denying it, tamping it down for so long.

‘You want to know why they deserve to die. I understand, Petra,’ Rashida said. Her voice was nothing like the snappy dictatorian she’d been playing outside; now it was gentle, nurturing. ‘You need a reason to do what you know you’re going to do.’

‘I’m not going to do anything,’ Petra said, standing and shooting her gaze between the three of them, feeling like a bug trapped in a jar. ‘You’re just con artists, preying on Vincent’s grief. Making him believe he can speak to his dead daughter. You’re torturing him for no reason.’

Rashida frowned, by the looks of it genuinely confused. ‘We’re not making him believe anything. He is speaking to Beccie. You saw him yourself. You know, many people would give everything for a chance to be with their passed loved ones. Many people do.’ She looked across at Ellis, as if appealing for him to explain. ‘Surely there would be a little gratitude?’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘This is what we’ve been saying.’

From her languid fold on the couch, Olivia sighed. ‘We’re offering both of you the gift of restitution, all wrapped up in a bow, and this is the reaction.’

‘You’re offering us nothing! Maybe you believe your own delusions, but nobody can talk to the dead.’ Petra stepped around the couch towards the door. All three of them were clearly trapped in their own creation, believing to their fibre the story they’d made up. She was done with actors. She was going home, with or without Vincent. ‘You can’t talk to the dead,’ she enunciated as if to a slow child. ‘Because they’re dead.’

In his corner, Ellis snickered and then a low giggle bubbled in his chest.

‘Ohhhh,’ Olivia said. ‘Now I understand. You won’t believe, after everything we’ve shown you. You still won’t believe.’