She’s lived next door to me long enough to know that my kids are gone. And to see the delivery man and my early-morning drunken returns. This bodes well. Frances must have guessed it was me and they’re checking my whereabouts. I shouldn’t have posted the crickets on Monica’s header. Damn. Great.

‘Yeah. Jack’s up to his old tricks again. You know …’

She rolls her eyes, crosses her oversized cardy over her false boobs and flicks her hair extensions.

‘Bastard. Anyways, I told them you were here all morning cos I didn’t hear Rover barking.’

Fucking Rover. Good boy.

‘I was here. I was doing a bit of work at home while the skip came. Time to get my act together. Having a spring clean.’

She perks up.

‘Ooo, throw anything you don’t want my way, yeah?’

She’s obviously seen the endless procession of boxes coming in and the delivery men walking away shaking their heads. I nod and she backs off.

‘Why did they want to know if I’d seen some suitcases going in?’

They’re asking around. Fuck you, Jack. You’re making them poke this monster.

‘Just some mix-up with deliveries. Jack’s been away and his cases got delivered here. Then he tried to say it was something to do with me. Can you believe it?’

She shakes her head. ‘I can believe anything of him. Shady fucker.’ She shifts from foot to foot and kicks some gravel on my drive. Then, avoiding my eyes, ‘Tried it on with me once. I said no, obviously. I’m a married woman. Made me think that it wasn’t the first time he’d done that, though. Then I saw him …’

I see red. Blinding fury. I hold onto the skip and clench my fists until my knuckles are white.

‘Yeah, I know. That’s why we’re divorced.’

She nods deeply and does a ‘smashed it’ fist.

‘Stay strong, sister. Stay strong.’

I’ll stay fucking strong, all right. I retreat past the skip and scan the kitchen for alcohol. I haven’t bought any since all this happened and I’m desperate now. Desperate for something to numb this pain. When it’s isolated inside me – hidden – it’s manageable. It’s the leaking out into public spaces that I find hard to cope with. Very fucking hard.

Now even my neighbours are telling me that Jack is a bastard. I open the drawer and there are the Tramadol you were prescribed when you had a bad back. It’s no wonder you had a bad back, is it? I know why now. I stare at the tablets. This is all supposed to make me feel better, not worse. So why do I feel like I’m taking a step in the wrong direction?