Mother was a killer. She’d shot Derek in the head and not even winced when she’d done it. She’d driven back to the cottage with the radio on, humming along to an upbeat song with a queer smile on her lips as though nothing had ever happened. As if Derek was still alive. As if both she and I weren’t covered with his blood. As if we were a normal, happy mother and daughter going for a drive in the dark.

She hadn’t said anything to me when we’d pulled up outside the cottage. She’d turned off the engine, exited the car, opened my door and lifted me out. I hadn’t protested as she had carried me like a baby into the cottage. Hadn’t protested when she’d injected me with some kind of drug and put me in my bed and locked my bedroom door.

Morning had come and gone. I lay on my back in bed, head and limbs heavy. I stared at the ceiling, glanced at the door. She’d left the house about an hour ago.

The silence and gloom seemed to consume me. I lifted my arms, let them drop back onto the mattress. Everything felt so heavy, so difficult. Pointless.

Patrick needs your help.

There was that nagging voice again. From behind that voice came a stranger’s voice. The voice of a person called D. H. Lawrence who had written the poem ‘Self-Pity’, a poem that I had found in one of Mother’s poetry books. The voice was harsh and angry: I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

I said the words out loud, testing them on my tongue. Then I screamed Patrick’s name as loudly as I could and listened. There was no response. How long had it been since Mother had stabbed him? I couldn’t work it out. The mathematical part of my brain seemed to be wading through the drugs, unable to perform as well as normal. I shouted his name again and again and again, listening in between each call and hearing nothing in return. I pushed myself out of bed and swivelled around to touch the floor with my bandaged feet. My entire body ached. I stood up and walked to the door, tried the handle. It was locked. She would be more careful from now on. Now that she knew I could not be trusted. Perfect, obedient Mirabelle was gone, replaced by naughty, rebellious Polly Dalton. In Mother’s mind, I was untrustworthy and crazy, but she was the crazy one. She was the killer.

Needles trickled across my shoulders. I forced my thoughts away from Derek’s headless body onto the here and now. If Patrick was still alive I could not just sit here and do nothing. Mother was out. This was my chance.