Then I thought about it and decided that it wasn’t in anyone’s interest to feed me to the law; they wouldn’t want me shouting my mouth off about who and what I knew. But the possibility that a bunch of muscles was going to shadow my doorstep and pulverize me for having screwed up hadn’t gone away.

It was a stressful time, but I guess nothing in comparison to what it must have been like for you. My old lady kept going on about you. She was as fixated on this Richie’s postings as she was on Jeremy Kyle or Love Island, apart from when she was off her face. Then she cried a lot and got so scared and loud about what someone might do to me that I’d end up having to gag her before someone heard.

Then a new post from Richie of the Gazette came up one day, and looking back I guess that was when my time properly started to run out.

Chapter Thirty

The outpouring of support for Marcy on social media and in the local news had remained constant throughout the six weeks she was at the Morriston Hospital in Swansea, and Claudia and Jasmine had read or listened to it all. It was a comfort in its way, the hundreds of posts and heartfelt responses, and they continued during the time of her transfer to the burns ward of Kesterly Royal Infirmary. So many people wanted to welcome her home and assure her that the whole town was wishing her well. It touched Claudia deeply that people who’d never heard of them before seemed to care so much and were calling them by their first names, even stopping her in the street to let her know how appalled they were by what had happened. Many even offered to help rebuild the coach house.

“My husband’s a plumber, call anytime.”

“I’ve got a flooring company, happy to sort you out for cost.”

“If you ever need to chat, our Bible group meets every Wednesday.”

“Have you heard about our burns charity? We help with rehabilitation. Please get in touch when your mother’s up to it.”