I’m in full-on head-trip mode when a trio of men walk in the door, voices low and conspiratorial. The room is darkly lit and one of the men is lighting up. Something about the shape of his shoulders and the way he scratches the back of his neck awakens my alien kung fu maestro, who swiftly lands a thump in my stomach. The man turns and scrutinises the room and the girls with a familiar air of authority. The light must be playing tricks on me, throwing shadows against the walls. He wouldn’t use girls like us, he doesn’t need to. I hear him clear his throat and speak in a low mumble to one of the other men, and a kick in the guts turns my insides to liquid. I’m back in the car and he is humming, in that deep voice, humming. I have to clench hard to stop my insides from trickling down my legs. Our gazes brush against each other but his is glazed, switched off. He doesn’t recognise me at first, and when he does, he pretends not to. I can see the shock register and then the veil of the professional man takes over. He turns his back to me and speaks in that ‘you will obey me’ voice to his cronies. He must be asking specially for me. He must’ve seen my desperation. He turns back towards the room and the girls, but doesn’t look in my direction, instead nods at Nico and holds out his hand. A perfect gentleman. Maybe he knows it would be too risky to deal with me directly.

I try to tell Nico by osmosis this is the man we have been waiting for. Here is a man she can reach. Switch on, Nico, plug back in. She looks at me briefly as she leaves the room and I open my eyes wide. It’s all I can manage, but she nods. I think even by the way he offered his arm she knows this is something different. I have to hold myself back, stop myself from screaming at him, at her, as they leave the room: No, don’t leave me here.

Did I know, in some part of me, that he was that kind of a man? I cast my mind back to the trip to the hospital and my gown flapping open. He was ‘boundaried’ (a favourite counselling word), professional, and yet … I always felt his eyes on me in a way that made Mrs O’D look at me with that hyper-focused gaze, nostrils flaring. Oh fuck, Lucy Lou. Should you know this thing about your father? Should I tell you?