Bethany opens her eyes as we burst in. The whites are bright red and I have to look away for a moment.

‘Bee! Oh, thank God!’ Amy’s eyes fill with tears and she kisses her sister on the cheek.

‘Hey,’ Bethany says, and her voice is a guttural whisper.

‘How are you feeling? What happened?’

Before Bethany can respond, Chloe throws her arms round her aunt, who does her best not to wince. Chloe cries noisily, and Bee strokes her head and gives us a half-smile. I stand about with my hands in my pockets, feeling like a spare part. Bethany’s face looks worse than it did yesterday: her lips are swollen around the cut; her eye is so puffy she can barely open it; and the skin below her bandage down one side of her face is a livid red and grape-black. Where her hospital gown gapes, I notice twin bruises below her collarbone, as if a man’s thumbs had pressed into her flesh. Who would do this to her?

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’ She swallows hard. It sounds as if it’s painful for her to speak, and not just because of her lip.

‘Do you want a drink of water?’

‘Yes.’

The nurse helps her sit up and Bethany cringes as he hoists her up the bed.

The cut on her lip reopens and a bead of blood runs down her chin. I pass her a glass of water and a tissue from the bedside table. Her hand shakes as she tries to drink.

‘Shouldn’t she get her lip stitched?’ Amy says.

Dr Virgili examines her face. ‘No, is not necessary. No shouting or laughing,’ he adds. He smiles at her and deep grooves appear in his cheeks.

The nurse presses a damp cloth against her mouth and indicates that Bethany should hold it there. The doctor takes out a pencil torch and shines it in one of her eyes, then the other.

‘Do you have the nausea? You vomit on the beach, before we bring you in.’

‘Yes, I feel sick.’

‘And do you know what happen to you?’

‘She said no, she can’t remember,’ I interject. I can’t stand seeing Bethany struggling to speak.

‘Okay, well, she is not – how you say it? – out of the woods. We monitor for the blood clot. For now, we leave you. Pull this cord if you feel bad: your head, you want to vomit. I give you some painkiller. Signor, Signorina, Signora, you must only remain with her for a few moments. She must rest.’

‘It looks worse than it is,’ Bethany whispers, after the doctor and the nurse have left.

Amy is practically wringing her hands, as she tells Bethany that they haven’t been able to change their flights or find anywhere to stay.

‘I said I’d take you to Grosseto for a brain scan, or fly home when the doctor gives you the all-clear, so you can go to the hospital in Bristol,’ I say.