I wonder where Dad is now, who he’s with. He couldn’t handle this house of women. Poor old Dad, always trying to keep the peace, deny the truth. Well, maybe now I’d smack him around the mouth with it: she is your wife, your responsibility, not mine, never was, Pops. I walk into the room carefully so as not to creak any floorboards and look at her bloated face creased against the pillow, her hair lank and limp, greying at the roots. The pictures of her when she was younger show a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, with plump lips and cheeks, not unlike me today. What happened, Mum? I try on the word for size and it sits like a lump of raw liver in my mouth. Mother. That’s what you are: Mother.

I lean in closer and am hit by a wave of stale booze. I wonder if I smell like that this morning. I kiss her on her forehead and push her hair back off her face. The rhythm of her snoring changes and she makes a contented sound, like the dog up the street does when you rub its tummy, until he starts his humping. For a moment I stand there at her side of the bed, paralysed. I’m sure none of this is her fault either. I have to give myself a little shake to dislodge the lump in my gullet. I kiss her again and walk slowly down the stairs and lift the bag. Maybe I shouldn’t have nicked all her food and cash, but then I’m hit by an image of Luce’s face full of murderous intent. That food should always have been my food. I won’t have to defy you again, Mother.

When I open the door, Lucy Lou is sitting on the wall. She smiles. ‘I didn’t want to ring on the doorbell, for obvious reasons.’

There’s no escaping her. ‘What are you doing here, Nurse Nightingale? I thought you were grounded.’

She hands me a plastic bag with my platforms and gear and tells me that after I left, her mum screeched off to look for me. I don’t tell her I know this and that I saw her head off in the wrong direction. I don’t tell her that I heard the conversation between the two of them. I’m still sore from the whole ‘I just can’t bear to have her around you’ comment.

‘Ha … not much of a sleuth now is she?’

‘I told her you’d never go home.’

‘I never will again.’

‘Do you not think we should call the Guards?’

‘And say what?’

‘Report the violence in your home.’

‘It’s not violence, Luce. Let’s not go getting all dramatic here. Do you see any broken bones, any marks on me that I haven’t done to myself?’

‘It’s unacceptable the way she treats you.’