There were no more small droplets. My mouth went watery. I dipped the dishcloth into the bucket for a third time, keeping the part I was holding as dry as possible. I turned with the dishcloth raised and stared at the huge black-red puddle of blood beside Patrick, fighting a sudden surge of pointlessness. I watched his chest to see if he was breathing. If he was dead, what was the point in trying to fight her now? I should wait for a better opportunity … a moment when I wasn’t crawling around on my hands and knees with her standing over me and a knife close to her hand.

‘Do it,’ she snapped.

I inched towards the puddle, my eyes fixed on Patrick, on his face and chest, looking for the slightest hint of movement. Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe.

There! There it was! His chest – rising and falling – minutely – just enough!

In that instant, I plunged the whole cloth into the thick puddle of blood.

‘Good girl. That’s it,’ she said, almost breathless.

I fought the urge to throw up and focused on letting the cloth absorb as much of the blood as possible. It took only seconds for the cloth to become heavy with blood.

‘I can’t! I can’t!’ I cried, glancing over my shoulder at her, begging with my eyes.

Mother’s eyes revealed only excitement. ‘Do it,’ she said.

‘No. I’m going to be sick.’

She stepped towards me, finger jabbing, ‘You will do it or I will make Clarabelle do it. Is that what you want?’

I shook my head and whispered something.

‘What did you say?’ she snapped, coming closer.

‘Nothing,’ I murmured.

‘Tell me!’ she demanded.

‘No!’ I screamed, staring at the cloth in my hand.

She froze, shocked by my defiance, and I spun around and thrust the blood-soaked cloth into her face. She screamed and clawed at the sodden cloth. At the same time, I plunged my hand into the bucket, barely feeling the burn, my fingers scrabbling for the screwdriver, but she was there, grabbing my hair, yanking me back, throwing me down on top of Patrick. I rolled off him onto my side and turned to face her. She reached down with both hands to grab my legs and I kicked and pushed myself up and stabbed the screwdriver into her thigh. She screeched and stumbled, falling into the counter, her hand scrabbling for the knife, eyes aflame, but she knocked the knife, sending it spinning onto the floor under the fridge.

She fought to stand but fell, grabbing her thigh, screaming and cursing.

I darted to the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. ‘Keys,’ I said, pointing the knife down at her, careful to keep my distance.