I find myself walking in the direction of that house. It’s midday and all the curtains are still drawn – Dad must be away on one of his trips. I open the door and tiptoe in, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty. She’ll probably be out for the count til well past five, when it’s permissible for her to start the booze again. That’s a pretty decent hour, really. She’s good at keeping up appearances; it amazes me how well she can scrub up when she has to, although I wonder whether the madness has inhabited all of her by now – it’s all I can see of her, in her eyes, which are yellowed and watery, shot through with little pink veins. Maybe strangers don’t look that closely.

I go to my room, change out of Luce’s oversized sweats and undersized Converse, and take down my purple-spotted lady’s case from the top of the wardrobe, the one on wheels that Dad picked up on his last trip. I also get my rucksack, go to the fridge, open the door, and take all the stuff that is labelled ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. I stuff the backpack full to bulging. Even if I don’t like a lot of this shit, it’s the principle of the thing. Her handbag is sitting on the kitchen table and I empty its contents and lift her cards, lipstick, mascara and 300 euros: Dad’s guilt-induced presents of cash. He’d never buy the booze for her, that way he’s not really complicit. Not really.

Just before I leave, for what will probably be the last time, I have a momentary pang of conscience. Who’ll put a blanket over her after she’s collapsed on the floor? Who’ll check up to see she hasn’t swallowed her own vomit? Who’ll listen to see if she’s still breathing? Who’ll put a warm facecloth to her forehead when she wakes with a banging headache and bring her sweet milky tea and toast in bed? Who’ll climb into bed beside her and snuggle her when she’s out cold, her body jerking in one of its recurring nightmares?

And then I think: who’ll take her ranting rages now? Not me, no sireee. I’m outta here. Had enough of feeling winded from the force of her words slamming me against the walls. Had enough of lying in the dark, coiled, waiting for the door to open, the bed springs to creak, her hand reaching out, not knowing what’s coming.

Still, old habits die hard, so I creep to her door, which is half open, and listen to her strangled snores.