I push open the door, surprised to find it unlocked, and step inside. In the lounge area there’s a folded duvet and a pillow at the end of a sofa, and a closed laptop. A wheelchair is collapsed in the corner – Mum’s wheelchair. The whole place smells awful, the pungent hum of pee overpowering.

I grip the branch in my fist, so hard my knuckles turn white. As I head through a narrow kitchen, the rain hammering on the roof sounds unsettling. The cat walks with precision over a sink loaded with dirty plates and cups, meowing urgently, trying to get my attention. I run my hand over its wet fur. It’s thin, but seems healthy.

I hear crying, and every hair on my body lifts as I turn. Hanging ominously on the curtain pole is a mask.

Chapter 53

Present Day

Me

Tears spill down Lark’s cheeks. I hate seeing her cry. That I’ve brought her to this. If I hadn’t treated her the way I did, told her I loved her, it would never have come to this.

I recall how my mum used to cry when Dad slept with other women – when he knocked her about. Everyone thought they were such a happy couple – Indigo and Phoenix united in their traveller ways. But I felt her pain. Saw her cry. She told me once – I could only have been six – to never hurt a woman. But maybe I’m more like my father than I realise.

‘Why, Jackson?’ Lark says, not for the first time. But this time she’s clenching a needle, and I know she will kill me soon. And I’ve accepted my fate. Living like this – trapped in a tiny world, one arm clamped to the metal headboard by a chain and padlock for over a year, has taken away my fight.

I hear movement, and although I can barely lift my head from the pillow, I see her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Amelia,’ I whisper. ‘Thank God.’

Chapter 54

Present Day

Amelia

Lark wheels around to face me, clenching a needle, tears rolling down her face. ‘Amelia?’ she says, hands shaking. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Christ, Lark, what’s going on?’ I cry, taking in the sight in front of me: Jackson, looking horribly thin, Lark beside him, her cheekbones prominent, skin pallid, eyes cradled with dark cushions of flesh, her blonde hair cut short and uneven. Gone are her long tendrils. I barely recognise her.

‘What have you done?’ I cry, racing towards her. ‘Oh God, what have you done, Lark?’

‘It’s heroin.’ Jackson’s voice is raspy, defeated, as though he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. His once trendy hair touches his shoulders, messy and greasy, and a straggly beard covers his chin. His eyes are washed out and sallow, his pupils dilated.