Maria likes to tell me of her dreams, which involve boys, and those spitting men. I bet Luca is in some of them. I tell her about the ones where I’m climbing trees, or swimming in a river, or sometimes in a sea that is like swimming in the sky, or about winning first prize in the essay competition. I don’t mention any of the other visitations that have Mama running to my bed and slapping me, pinching me hard. I never remember these after, just the sense of having been invaded. This is different. I hit myself on both cheeks to shake the memory, which is as alive as this moment I am living.

Outside, a strange bird sounds. I think back to nature class and try to remember – jay, song thrush, blackbird, woodlark? Placing my feet on the patch of worn carpet beside my bed, I stand and stretch, pull back the tattered lace window-dressings, turn off the light and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. Through the grimy glass, I can make out the shape of the small tree with its carpet of shed helicopters, the rusted wire of the sleeping chicken coops, and the silhouette of the dog, tethered to a post, curled in on itself, its body rising and falling. I want to go outside and bring it back to my bed but Papa would never allow it: ‘Filthy flea-ridden thing’. I listen to the sound, which is thin and distant. Maybe it’s not a bird at all. Maybe it’s the cry of a baby acorn being taken too soon. Red squirrels live in the forests around here, although nobody I know has ever seen one, except Papa, who claims they are like ‘giant rats with fluffy tails and razor-sharp teeth.’

When I turn back towards the bed I see a staining on the sheets: berry-red and glistening. Did this happen in my dream? Was I hurt when I fell into the well? I look down at my body and there is blood between my legs. The water should have washed me clean. Maybe I punctured myself climbing the tree. The Virgin Mary, in her gilded picture frame above my bed, glints at me and smiles. I want to go to Mama but am too afraid to wake Papa, who was late coming back from the village for dinner and had taken too much Rachiu. His eyes were shining over-brightly and two spots of purple appeared high on his cheeks, criss-crossed with veins, like bruised plums. I could feel his gaze on me. Mama and I were careful not to get too close, not to look at him directly and not to say anything that might make him laugh, or cry, or swear, or punch a hole in the wall.

‘You two are much too silent,’ he said. ‘What are you plotting?’