The sky is high and blue with wisps of cloud floating. I look up to see if I can see any shapes. Nada. The convent materialises at the end of the yellow-brick road, must be I have a calling – the gates are open, beckoning me in. There are a few aul dears shuffling in their habits, muttering prayers, Rosary beads rolling between thumbs and forefingers. The youngest looks to be about eighty. Are they really at it at night, under cover of darkness in their grey domain? Are they atoning for their sins now? I feel a bubble of laughter rising in my stomach, fizzy. I think of the three nuns that still teach in our school, the last ones standing. They’re so ancient their skin looks like it might crumble off their faces with the slightest touch. Poor old Sr Wendy in religious instruction class has a thing about ‘tongues’ and the holy spirit flowing into her. She wishes. The laughter erupts, and one of the nuns doing the rounds turns her sharp, pebble-like eyes in my direction. Not welcome here either, love.

I’ll have to go home, have to change, nick a few bob from Mother’s purse, take some ‘special’ food from the fridge that’s only for her: prawns and pink dips and the posh dark choccy labelled ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. Mother goes to a lot of trouble putting different-coloured stickers on jars of pickles and jams, cartons of juices and boxes of wine. I remember Luce calling over one day and staring into the fridge. ‘What the fuck are you meant to eat?’

I pointed at cheap, store-brand processed cheese and ham, packets with reduced-price stickers on them, and milk. ‘She’s very thoughtful, really. Wouldn’t want me to get scurvy.’ I’ll never forget the look on Luce’s face. Murderous – isn’t that what they say? I’ve seen it.