I wanted this moment to last, wanted to feel, taste, smell, hear every atom of it. I inhaled the air, filling my lungs with the stuff, savouring, relishing, loving everything. Even the red car was a wonderful sight to behold with its gleaming scarlet brightness, its bonnet shimmering with light. Most of the ground was hard earth; natural, not man-made, but a lot of white and golden bits of stone sat beneath the car. And the trees that loomed larger than the cottage – which I did not want to turn and see – the trees were magnificent. So tall and green and full of colour and life. I could hear birds chattering to each other, see ants on the ground, clouds in the sky. My head ached with the brightness, but I was not in any real pain. My skin was not melting off or beginning to burn or peel or do any of the many other horrible things I had imagined. My eyes were not bursting, my body was not on fire, my lungs had not exploded in my chest. I was alive and breathing and healthy. I grinned down at Emma and she gave me a small smile.

‘Can I go home now?’ she said.

‘We have a little way to go, but yes, we’re going home.’

Hand in hand we strode past the car, taking the dirt road, following the tyre tracks that Mother’s car had so recently created. We walked quickly along the dusty road, me shielding my eyes with my free hand and scanning the distance, unsurprised to see nothing more than dirt road, trees on either side of us and far, far in the distance, a bright green field. I had seen some of this from Mother’s bedroom window.

After about five minutes, a sheen had worked its way onto my skin, Emma’s too.

‘I’m tired. How long ’til we get there?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but we can’t stop. Patrick’s not very well. We need to find someone who can help him as quickly as possible.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her, whether to lie or tell the truth. I’d had enough of lies to last a lifetime – but Emma was only five years old. She had been through so much already. Too much.

Unbidden, the sight of Patrick grasping his side, appealing to Mother, blood soaking through his T-shirt into the carpet, flashed into my mind’s eye. I shivered despite the warmth, unable to believe all that had happened. Unable to believe I had managed to escape.

I dropped my arm to my side and looked at the bunch of keys in my palm. I was holding them so tightly that they were cutting into my hand. I loosened my grip and glanced at Emma’s damp hair.

‘Patrick got hurt,’ I said.

‘How?’

‘Mother hit him and he fell over.’