Once inside the bathroom I lock the door, open the taps and pour soapy liquid into the running water, which makes bubbles pop and hiss. I take my dress off, which is sticky as I pull it over my head, and step into the foaming hot water. When I think I cannot stand it any longer, I can. I sit, then lie, submerging my head. There is rose-coloured shampoo at the side of the bath, which is thick like honey when I squeeze it into my hand. I can feel its sweetness and stickiness soaking into my scalp as I lie back down under the water and hold my breath. An image of me waving at Luca and Maria: ‘Look at me,’ as I pretend I’ve been under for sixty-six seconds.

I pray to the Madonna who lived above my bed, for the first time since that night, when her smile glinted at me – was she mocking me? – from inside her gilded frame. Praying blocks out other sounds and pictures in my head, although the people I want to pray for are the people I need to forget. Magda’s face fills the picture frame. Static builds up between my ears and I have to shake my head violently. I try to make sense of what I saw between her and Petre. How can someone love and hate so much at the same time? I paint an image in my head of the two of them together, her safe inside his arms, but a shadow falls over it.

I concentrate on rinsing my hair, imagining the bad thoughts are flowing down the plug hole with the suds. I remember Miss Iliescu telling us that in some big cities they have pipes where wastewater flows underground, all the way to the sea, and then it is pumped back into toilets and showers and taps. I turn on the shower head and let scalding water pound on my shoulders, imagining this is the sea poring over me, salty and clean. I step onto the bath towel and dry myself off roughly when there’s a knock on the door.

Irina’s voice: ‘Everything ok in there?’

I don’t feel like speaking, so I open the door a crack with the towel wrapped tightly around me. She looks at me closely, and then walks soundlessly away down the hallway.