That last night, though, she’d been pushing herself, forcing out one last song and another last song even though the attention had started to wander, though the regulars wanted back to their pints and the young barman was itching around by the CD player. Her voice had strained, her eyes had gone flinty, intent on pushing a party, but eventually she’d crashed back down onto the bench beside Ruth and John, who drove the buses, seeming drunker than she could possibly be. Something about the way her limbs flew about, almost knocking things over, about the way she showed her teeth to gnash out a laugh at John’s little jokes, the feral baring of them, reminded Ruth of her two tiny nieces, the way they went half-savage as they frayed and needed to be steered to bed.

‘Come on, lovey. It’s been a late one, and we should get going.’

Clio was tucked under John’s meaty arm at this point, his moustache beaming down at her.

‘No, I think I’m going to stay on for a bit. You go, though.’

Ruth should probably have recognized this as a danger sign, but she was tired and drunk, unaccustomed to beer. And for God’s sake, she was not Clio’s keeper! They’d woken her as they crashed in, a couple of hours later, an indecent hooting and old wheezing from the living room, muddy footprints crushed into the carpet the next morning. She’d worried that this would be too much, but the singing had continued over the next few days.

Oh, you suspected something, she told herself now. There had been some small alert trying to flicker on in the back of her brain, and she’d dampened it down, thrown a cloth over it, carried on with her life around the big sad fact of Clio at the kitchen table. Be honest with yourself, she muttered, into the trees. You were getting sick of her. You were. You wanted her gone. So you decided not to care.

She had been going through the motions a bit. She had. There would still be toast and tea but only if she was making it for herself too. Well, it had been almost a month. Longer than before. And Clio wasn’t really giving anything back. It was all right, she told herself, to feel a little bit of resentment, surely?

The cat wasn’t out here. She could tell. The cat hated rain; it would have sucked up to someone warm and dry, someone who didn’t have death in their house. Ruth felt so tired. Maybe, she thought, maybe I should just sit down for a while. There was moss and it looked comfy, and through the trees she could still see her kitchen light.

Clio Campbell

Folk singer, activist