I’ll let her think it’s Simon I’m frightened of, not GoodSam, with his sharp teeth and cruel, laughing eyes. My back itches where the barbed wire broke through my skin. I curl up, tighter. I want to stay here forever, tiny and hidden from the world. I try not to think too much, but it’s the fear I can’t control. It comes for me like a frost, sudden and silent, leaving me petrified. I see Grace’s spilt chair again, the sticky dent where Meg’s forehead once was. I feel the force of the blow from the lamp again and again, like a fist to my stomach. I hear the sound horribly dulled as he crushed the precious alleys and paths full of Meg’s life, her memories, her joy. I wonder what part of her he killed last.

At some point during the afternoon the doorbell rings and I hear Martin and Sylvia asking questions about me. I wonder how long it’ll be until the whole estate knows that I’ve finally crashed, as I’m sure they all said I would. Mum runs me a bath and afterwards, when my skin is pink and steaming, she makes me get into bed and without me asking brings beans on toast for dinner. She sits on the end of my bed, propped up on her elbow, watching me, smiling with every mouthful.

“This reminds me of when you were little, Car, remember?”

I don’t remember a specific time, but Mum does.

“It was just after your dad buggered off. You cried so hard you made yourself sick.”

She says it with a small smile, like it’s a happy memory, not one full of misery. She pats my leg through the duvet. I feel like her pet but I don’t care.

“I think we should both take a few days off work. I want you to recover properly from everything. You rushed too much last time, that’s why we’ve ended up back here. But this time I just want you to take it really easy for a good few days, OK?” She takes a bottle of unmarked pills out of her cardigan pocket. “Meg gave me these a few months ago when I was going through that patch of insomnia—do you remember?”

I don’t, but I nod.

“They’re just pills to help with sleep, they sort of melt everything negative away so your mind doesn’t churn right before bed. Once you’ve finished eating I want to see you take a couple and then you’ll have a good night’s rest and we can see where we are in the morning . . .”

Mum’s other cardigan pocket starts to glow and vibrate with a phone call. She looks at the screen and says, “It’s only Zara, I’ll call her back later.” She drops the phone back in her pocket; it stills for a moment. She frowns at my half-finished food, before taking out the phone, which has started ringing again.

“You should answer it, Mum,” I say, flicking a few crumbs off the duvet. “It might be something important.”