‘Catherine,’ Alison said. The photographs were still in her hand, and she didn’t immediately know how to destroy them. Peter should have them, she thought; he should take them away and burn them. But Peter was nowhere to be seen.

‘Catherine.’

Her mother said, ‘What?’ without moving or looking round. Her voice was groggy, thick with sleep. In the late-morning sunlight, the room looked hangdog and unloved, a sorry collection of mismatched furniture, a three-bar electric fire unplugged from its socket, a carpet burned black here and there by cigarette ends.

‘Have you talked to our Peter?’

No reply.

‘Catherine? Have you seen our Peter?’

She rolled over, very carefully and slowly. Her face was a mess of blood and bruising, and an untreated gash at her right temple was a raw and livid red. Alison felt weary beyond words. She put the photographs down on the mantelpiece, fetched a bowl of water and clean cloth from the kitchen, and a tin of plasters from the sideboard, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She dampened the flannel and then very gently began to clean up her mother’s face. Catherine submitted to the attention like a child, sighing and snuggling closer. She smelled bad; she often did these days. Sweat, smoke, secretions.

‘I’ve just seen Martin Baxter,’ Alison said. She leaned in to examine the cut. It wasn’t too deep, didn’t need stitches, just antiseptic, gauze and a strip of Elastoplast. She wet the flannel again, cleaned away blood and streaks of mascara, and the remnants of the sky-blue eyeshadow her mother favoured. She’d been doing this job for as long as she could remember, sharing the task with Peter: cleaning up their mother, dabbing away the results of a night on the tiles. Catherine’s eyes were closed. She was relaxed and comfortable, still too numbed by vodka to feel any pain.

‘Catherine?’

Her mother opened one eye. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said.

‘Have you seen our Peter?’

Her mother nodded unsteadily. ‘Upstairs,’ she said.

‘He’s having a bad time. Martin took pictures of him and Toddy.’

‘Help me up, love,’ Catherine said. ‘I need the lav.’

‘In a minute. Just tell me, do you know what Martin’s done?’

Catherine pulled a face, a grimace, and said, ‘He shouldn’t be so nasty.’

‘Martin?’

‘No, our Peter. He’s nasty and it makes Martin go mad.’

‘It’s not Peter’s fault. Martin’s a pig, he’s a monster, and you just let him do whatever he likes.’

Catherine opened her eyes wide. ‘Me?’ she said, befuddled, astonished.

Alison looked at her with ineffable sadness, and her mother said, ‘What?’

‘Do you think we don’t need you, me and Peter?’

Catherine tutted. ‘Oh, this again,’ she said.

‘We have to help him, Catherine.’ Alison’s voice shook. ‘I don’t think I can do this on my own. I don’t know what to do.’