‘That was Bobby. Ellen’s been mugged and he thinks he’s broken his hand.’

‘What?’

‘Ellen’s been—’

‘I heard. I just didn’t believe it.’

‘Believe it.’

A groan. Now Greg is awake and getting out of bed. ‘I’ll go. You can’t drive.’

I look down at my foot. I’d forgotten about that.

‘We’ll both go,’ I say. ‘We’re both awake now anyway.’ Not that I’m likely to rest until I can find out what’s been going on.

So, minutes later, we’re up, dressed and jump into my car and speed off towards the city centre to rescue our children.

When Greg pulls up outside Nitebox, Ellen is sitting on the pavement, head in hands. We struggle to pick her out at first as there are so many similarly attired drunken women slouched by the roadside in the same state of disarray. Her feet are bare, her shoes nowhere to be seen. Bobby, beside her, is nursing his hand. A group of youths are having a fist-fight not far behind them.

There’s a police van parked up there, but no sign of any policemen.

Greg and I are out of the car in seconds. I can now see why they couldn’t get a taxi home. A pool of vomit is at my daughter’s feet. My anger rises.

‘Is that why you couldn’t get a taxi?’

‘Yeah,’ Bobby admits. ‘No one would take us. I’ve not had that much to drink.’

‘But still too much to drive?’

My son doesn’t grace that with a reply. Nearly every weekend he ends up abandoning his car here and we’re the mugs who have to come and get it with him in the morning. But, I suppose, I’d rather him do that than drink and drive. Though, if I had my way, he wouldn’t drink at all.

‘Let’s take you straight to hospital.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ he insists.

‘Don’t be silly.’ I realise that I’m speaking to him like he’s a five year old, but at the moment, I feel he deserves it. ‘Get in, get in.’ I usher him towards the car.

Greg puts his arms round Ellen and scoops her up from the gutter.

‘God, she smells like a brewery,’ I complain.

Her skirt is torn and her hair is all over the place. To think that this is someone who prides herself on her appearance.

Greg lowers her into the front seat of the car and she’s promptly sick in the footwell.

I get in the back with Bobby. ‘Care to shed any light on this?’

‘Ellen got a bit lashed.’ We both look at my daughter, her mascara-streaked face, her make-up all smeared, clown-like.