‘More than you might imagine,’ the woman says. ‘If you hand yourself in to the Guards and tell them about the stuff that’s going on at home, social services will get you somewhere else to live and you’ll be able to finish school, go to college and all.’

How does she know anything about what’s going on at home? No one has believed my stories before. My parents would persuade the world of my madness. Sometimes I think they’re right: that I am mad, that I’ve made the whole thing up, that the lovely woman with the powdery-soft voice and scent, the one who presents herself at parent-teacher meetings, is the real woman, and the other one – the raging, spitting, night-time one – is a figment of my ‘over-vivid’ imagination. Luce knows the truth of it (although not all of it, I wouldn’t tell her that), but even her parents won’t acknowledge there is a problem. As far as they’re concerned, I am the problem. The woman is looking at me as all these thoughts tumble about my head, rattling around so loud I reckon she must be able to hear them.

‘Is there really no way of surviving home, at least until you finish school?’ This is a desperate measure on her part, and she knows it. ‘Have you no one you can talk to? No auntie or anything?’

I think of Dad’s spinster sister, Marge, with her perfectly coiffed hair and nails, her manicured house and life. Imagine if I told her? The little madam is telling lies again.

The woman is studying me forensically and I feel like I’m one of those rare butterflies Doc O’D has displayed in his study, pinned and laid bare. After some moments, she sighs. ‘Ok so, here …’ She scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Call this woman, she’ll look out for you. Tell her Sandra recommended you.’

Sandra. How many other women are mothers here? I nod and thank her. The fist I swallowed earlier has settled in my stomach and is punching its weight in there. It lands a thump and I feel cold anger settle in me, and with it a strange growing power. I can do this.

I get up slowly and stand tall, legs planted, to counteract the juddering.

‘Here, take this,’ the woman says, and she hands me a few twenties. I shake my head. ‘Take it,’ she pushes the cash into my palm, ‘and make sure you leave here as soon as possible. That guy will be back. I know his type.’