She moaned her agreement. The pain seemed to be getting harder to bear.

Quickly, I knelt on the ground by the foot-end of the bed, picked up the bed sheet and tried to tear it. It wouldn’t work. I put it between my teeth and tore a strip off. Then another.

Olivia was muttering words I couldn’t make sense of, moaning all the while. I dipped the first strip in the water and gently felt for her arm. She groaned.

‘I’m going to clean it now,’ I said.

‘No, no, no, don’t touch it! It’s too painful,’ she was crying.

‘I have to. Like you said. We have to at least bandage it.’

She screamed when I took hold of her palm, which was caked with blood. I felt her thumb, which was fine. My fingertips drifted to the right and then I felt it: a wet, fleshy stump. There was no finger attached any more, and I wondered uneasily where it was. I dabbed the stump with the sheet and she screamed again. Vomit rose in my throat. I tasted sick.

‘OK, OK. I won’t clean it. I’m going to bandage it as quickly as I can. Squeeze the mattress with your other hand and scream as much as you need to.’

I didn’t know how tightly to wrap it round her hand so I veered on the side of caution and didn’t wrap it too tightly. She moaned and moaned and writhed around on the bed. I touched the bandage and felt blood soaking through.

‘It needs more,’ I said. I tore several strips off the sheet, trying not to think about how filthy they were, then wrapped and tied, wrapped and tied until I couldn’t feel any moisture soaking through.

‘It’s done,’ I said, close to tears and suddenly shattered.

She continued to moan. I helped her drink water from the bowl then told her to try to get some sleep.

I fell asleep on the floor not long after and had a nightmare about Mother painting my face with blood.