She shakes her head. She starts to rub her hands again and look in every direction but at me. ‘He won’t be able to find me here,’ she says, ‘even if he was looking he’d never know where I was. And I’ve got nothing to give him if he comes.’ She holds her hands out then tries to push herself up out of the chair. It’s no use. Her wrists are so thin. Her arms shaking with the effort. ‘Look at this!’ she says. ‘Look at what you’ve done to me!’

‘Calm down, Mum. It’s alright.’

‘It’s not. You put me here to hide me away.’

‘That’s not –’

‘I think you’re very rude and your lips are too bright.’

She starts humming again. It’s familiar. Slow and sad. Words scattered in here and there. Very far, very far, over land and sea. I can’t place it.

‘That’s it then is it?’ I say, ‘conversation over?’

‘If you don’t mind there’s somewhere I have to be at three-fifteen.’

‘Is there? Where’s that then? An urgent appointment with the commode? An especially good episode of Antiques-fucking-Roadshow?’ I say it under my breath but she glares at me. There’s nothing at all wrong with her hearing.

I go to sign out and my hands are shaking. The corridor is soupy with chemicals. The smell of meat and over-boiled vegetables. Someone’s chewed the end of the pen by reception. Teeth marks in the cheap plastic. The door buzzes and clicks.

When I get home it’s quarter to seven. The porch is full of takeaway leaflets, money-off supermarket vouchers and junk mail. Saturday night. I can’t bear to go in. Alex is already at work. Holed up in the pub kitchen, scraping gravy off the plates, stacking beer glasses in the big dishwasher. I’m past hunger. My toenails feel like they’ve been pushed too far into my skin. I could curl up on the sofa and let the night wash over me, wait for Alex to get in. He wouldn’t thank me for it.

Something has to change. I put my bag down on the bottom step and lean against the banister. The primary school photo of Alex is wonky again. He does it on purpose. He used to turn it to the wall if Lorna was coming over. Embarrassed by the way his hair clashed with his maroon jumper. His gappy-toothed smile. I straighten it and stand back. The ticking of the boiler firing up. The hum of the fridge. Outside there’s a siren getting louder and then fading away. There’s no reason to waste another weekend. There’s nothing here to stay for. I think of the gang from work, out for their usual weekend drinks. There’s always room for one more.