I’m relieved to see Nico is in the car already, although I don’t like the shadows under her eyes, the shadows that seem to dance in the air about her head. I have to stop looking at her – the things that crash into my mind are too much. I hope next time she’ll listen to me and take the helping hand of Mr Floaty, so at least her body could soften. I worry she might be snapped in two.

I have an image of the two of us swimming in the sea, newly baptised, our sins – and the sins of those inside of us – washed clean. Since she mentioned the sea I’ve had this thing in my head: I want to go swimming in the rain. Weird, seeing as I’ve only ever gone swimming in Ireland once before, and it was so, so bloody cold my whole body broke out in purple spots and I had to down a flagon of whiskey to get the blood flowing again. The Med, on the other hand – Dad, Mother and I, in Majorca, on a tasteful side of the island, far from the madding crowd (one of Mother’s favourites, back in the day, when she could still concentrate enough to read). I’m ten and Mother’s pissed at me, at life, at Dad. She’s also just pissed. The sun is a perfect yellow disc in the high blue sky and hugs me daily with its warming, soothing rays. Dad and I make sandcastles – even though I’m really too old – and he buries me up to my neck. The best part is running into the crystal sea and washing all the grainy bits away. Mother finds the sun too bright, the light too exposing. She stays indoors until after sundown. I don’t mind. I have Dad all to myself.

I curl myself against the hard door, feeling its solidity. The doors are locked, child-locked, in case anyone decides to make a run for it. The white light outside makes me shut my eyes. Maybe I’ll live my life in the shade now, always wanting curtains drawn, dark glasses on, blinds down. The car trundles along, a lulling motion beneath me. Taxi Joe stops at a petrol station, fills her up, gets back in, stuffs his mouth full of crisps and coffee. He offers us one – one crisp by hand, like he’s feeding animals through a cage. Neither of us takes him up on his fine offer. I catch her eye, which glints – a tear, or a laugh, or both?