I hear the doorbell ring: it is my saviour. Mother answers the door, and I can imagine her laser-beaming Lucy with her yellow eyes, her gaze working upwards from her ankles to beneath the hem of her skirt. ‘Hello, Lucy,’ I hear her say. ‘Samantha is having a strop, locked herself in her bedroom, making an awful racket. I’m at my wits end with that one.’ Even though she’s not one to pray, Luce thanks God or the tooth fairy or whatever entity has decided not to land her in this house.

‘Sam?’ I pretend not to hear her, allowing her to suffer the pleasure of Mother’s company a moment longer. Feel it, Luce? I’m hooked up to Eminem on my mobile, on a loop, over and over: Oh where’s Mama? She’s taking a little nap in the trunk. Eminem is the king. He does it better than any of the nubies out there. Mother hates the racket he makes: ‘Angry little man’. Really, Mother. I imagine her going into the kitchen to light a cigarette and suck on a glass of chilled plonk; she’s waving the cigarette towards the ceiling and the ‘strop’. ‘What did I do to deserve this little hussy?’ she says, all teary and bleary. Luce turns one of her special hate-filled stares on Mother, believing for a moment that maybe she possesses special powers and can turn the monster to stone. Instead, the full force of Mother’s toxic gaze is turned back on her and she withers. Poor ole Luce wants to wee and wants to run. She’s momentarily paralysed, standing at the base of the stairs.

‘Go on home now, and I’ll deal with the trollop later on.’

This is it. Some power she never knew she had pours through her. ‘Where do you think you’re going, missy? I thought I told you to go home.’ Luce hears the voice behind her: a voice that is full of swaying and malice, a voice that is saturated with booze. She gets to the top of the stairs and bangs on my door. ‘It’s me, Lucy.’