Catherine gave a splutter of laughter and shoved Alison, in a matey way. ‘Don’t know what to do? Get away with you,’ she said. She pointed an unsteady index finger too close to Alison’s face. ‘You’re my clever one. You’re my bright spark.’ She yawned and drew a hand over her face, and when her fingers grazed the wound she winced. ‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘What the bloody hell’s that?’

Alison looked down at the flannel in her hands, the bowl on her knees. The water was filmy now, the flannel smeared with blood and make-up. Her mother was sobering up, which meant she’d soon be hitting the booze again, and Peter was too quiet; she had to find him, face him, but, oh, she didn’t want to, all on her own. Nothing was right here. Nothing was good. She’d go to Daniel’s. She’d make sure Peter was OK first, then she’d go to Daniel’s. She’d take a bag, some clothes. She couldn’t be here.

‘Ey,’ Catherine said, attempting sympathy. ‘Don’t cry, pet lamb. What you got to cry about?’ Then she pushed herself up to a sitting position. ‘Right, shift then,’ she said. ‘I need the lav and you’re in my way.’

Alison moved to let her mother stagger off the sofa. ‘And don’t lock the door, all right?’ she said.

‘Don’t lock the door, all right?’ her mother repeated in a simpering echo.

Upstairs.

Catherine was crashing about in the bathroom, Peter was in his room and Alison was standing in front of her dressing-table mirror, analysing her appearance.