I drift in and out of woozy consciousness. There go her spikes, and there she lies, under the tyres. SPLAT. Resistance. Is. At. This. Stage. Futile. I wake to the sound of my own voice, gurgling. The new sheets are soaked in sweat. I’m dying for a wee so I pad along the swirling carpet in my bare feet. There’s a window in the loo and when I look out I see that it’s dusky outside and hard rain is falling like splinters from the sky. Someone must have tried calling me by now, someone must be worried, but there’s no little envelope on the screen. Just a matter of time and then I’ll have to chuck the phone, well, the SIM anyway, cos when they do decide to come looking for me this would be the easiest way to track me down. I like that image: the police and my loved ones, in a cell, heads huddled together, on my trail, on a tracking device. Dad is pale and supporting Mother, who’s sober and has realised the error of her ways. She’s beating herself up over this big time. Ah now, Mother, don’t go blaming yourself. You know you’re not to blame. We are none of us to blame.

I tune in to the noises of the house and wish I hadn’t. It’s all there: the creaking, banging (I guess headboards against walls), men’s voices – it’s funny cos I can’t hear any female ones – and there’s even the odd grunt and snore. Lullaby sounds. I have to get out of here. On my way down I get stared at, solicited by two men together. They could be father and son, and I get told off by another. ‘Go home,’ this man says. ‘You’re far too young to be in a place like this.’