The children follow Grace outside. The patch of grass by the car park glistens with discarded bottles; her shirt feels sticky already. The usual four adolescents are bunched in a group by the rubbish bins, thin boys waiting for drugs. A new one has joined them today, older, taller. The green soles of his trainers flash as he twists, walks, turns and starts again; head down and hooded, seventeen at a guess, scrawny, already scarred. He flicks a cigarette butt her way and she feels a faint crackle of fear. It’s the way he looks at her, half grinning as though biding his time. Grace’s father had been a veteran of the Second Chimurenga in Zimbabwe. He had fought with ZANLA against the ruling whites and witnessed the atrocities his people suffered; she grew up on his stories. It took her a while to convince her family that Martin was different, that she would be safe with him. She didn’t tell them about the UKIP graffiti on the walls of the flats when they moved in; she had been pregnant with Blake at the time and they needed a home, it was all they could afford. She watches her kids getting into the car and gets in herself, heart thumping. She pulls out and turns on the radio for the children. Her story starts up again, running below the music like a bright river.

Poppy lies on her bed, watching the dust jumping in the light. The minutes drag already. There is literally nothing to do. She closes her eyes. Ash is crying; Sorrel is complaining in a whiny voice because Poppy won’t let her on to her bed. The smell of hot bread hanging in the house makes her feel like vomiting. She wants to tell her mother to stop with the fucking baking. She wants to walk out of the room and down the stairs and out to another house, a normal family where the kids are allowed screen time and junk food and normal bread and they don’t have to look after their brother or sister or play games in the garden, like kids in a fucking fairy tale. Everyone at school thinks she’s an idiot. Izzy – the girl coming this morning – will think she’s stupid when they start their lessons together. She’ll arrive any minute and it’ll be embarrassing. Her mother’s laugh is embarrassing, like she’s escaped from some mental hospital. She’s not even wearing a bra today, Izzy will think it’s gross. Poppy rolls over on to her stomach, squashing the croissant. She covers her ears to block out Ash and her whiney little sister. She wishes she had some of those earphones that cancel out noise. She’d cancel out her whole family if she could.