‘Your Papa says he is a very rich man. He’ll wear suits every day and you’ll have a lovely house, with carpets and heaters on the walls. I’ve seen pictures of these houses in England. There will be pink and purple flowers in your garden, and your papa is right: you will get to see the sea.’

‘And you will come some day, Mama, and we can go together?’

We are both playing this lying game.

She grabs her purse from the container that is hidden behind the jars of pickled beets and cabbage under the sink.

‘Where are you off to, Mama?’

‘Ask me no questions …’ she says, trying to crack a smile. ‘Can you peel the potatoes and carrots and put them on to boil in about an hour? I should be back by the time they’re soft.’

She leaves, without looking back at me. Mama never leaves the house alone, and as I look out the window I can see Luca following her as she walks down the lane from the house towards the village. She turns on him and shoos him away, like she’s herding the chickens back into their hen-house, then she turns her back, arms swinging ferociously by her sides, as if propelling herself forward. I see her stumble on a loose rock, shake her head and keep on going.

10. Sammy

10

Sammy

Options: it’s always good to have options. Today, there’s a new pep to my step. In Tesco, I stock up on six-packs of Monster Munch and Heatwave Doritos, a bag of apples (for the general good health), a few sambos, cans of 7Up and Coke, and some crackers and Laughing Cow cheese. Even though I have the rucksack full of Mother’s forbidden foods, I’d better maximise this credit card today, now, before the thirsty one awakes. The first thing she’ll notice is the stolen money. I can hear her yowls of outrage from here.

Outside, I hail a taxi, which is driven by a shriveled angry Irish aul fella, who asks me if I would ever get into a cab with one of those black yokes. I say I don’t care either way, I just want to be dropped to my destination.

‘You should care … young one like yourself … you never know what those monkeys are capable of.’

I look at his face in the rear-view mirror and see it’s scorch-marked by hatred, red lines criss-crossing his nose. I bet he has a favourite tipple, and I play my guessing game, knowing the answer immediately: whiskey – Paddy. That stuff’d turn anyone mean. I open the window and stick my head out, breathing in the fumy air.

‘Hey, close that window, young one,’ he says, all narky.

I suddenly want to get out of this car. ‘Pull over,’ I say.

‘Not there yet.’

I tell him I might puke. He pulls over. ‘That’ll be eighteen euros.’