I hurried away and slipped on Patrick’s blood. I fell onto one knee and she tutted. Ignoring her, I left the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the stairs. My eyes found the bucket immediately. I grabbed it, pausing at the sight of Mother’s toolbox. There were no pockets in my dress, nowhere I could conceal anything.

‘Hurry up!’

I snatched up a small screwdriver and put it in the bucket. If she saw it, I was done for, so I rushed into the kitchen, passing her as quickly as possible. With shaky hands I lifted the bucket into the sink and ran the hot tap.

‘Add bleach,’ she said.

Obediently, I bent down and opened the cupboard under the sink, picked up the bleach and added a tiny amount to the hot water.

‘More than that,’ she snapped.

I added two drops and looked at her. She nodded sharply telling me to add more. I kept on adding more until she held up her hand to indicate that I should stop. Within seconds the harsh odour of bleach permeated the small room, overwhelming the metallic zing of blood and making my nostrils burn. I gazed into the now steaming water, realizing that if I was to plunge my hand into the liquid to retrieve the screwdriver, I would burn my skin. I sneaked a look at Patrick as I turned off the tap. His body was utterly limp, his face ashen. Was he dead? It was impossible to tell in one quick glance. Mother was gazing down at Patrick’s body, leaning her weight against the counter, her fingers inches from the knife.

Hoping she would not notice, I turned on the cold tap and watched the water gush in, cooling off the steam.

‘Not too cold,’ she said, whipping her head round to glare at me.

I turned off the cold tap and, with difficulty, lifted the bucket out of the sink onto the bloodied tiles.

‘Can I have some gloves please, Mother?’ I said.

She seemed not to hear me, so I stood up, opened the cupboard and rifled inside.

‘No. No gloves. Hurry up.’

Gritting my teeth, I got back down on my hands and knees and dipped the dishcloth into the top of the water in an attempt to keep my fingers dry. I could feel her watching me as I crawled towards a small droplet of blood to her right, nearer the back door. The blood was still wet and I was able to wipe it up in one swipe. I crawled back to the bucket and rinsed the cloth, again conscious of keeping my fingers out of the water. With only two thirds of the cloth wet, I moved to the second furthest droplet of blood and began to clean it, my hands trembling, my fingers beginning to tingle as bleach made contact with my skin despite my efforts.