Danny’s head swivels from me to Lou and back again like he’s on a day out at Wimbledon. The guy should be celebrating, because it’s only taken him a few weeks to do what I couldn’t in fifteen years. And he’s the one she told.

Lou stays silent, eyes half closed, head low like she’s not even going to try. Like she already knows how this is about to go down. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my cheek and slips into the neck of my T-shirt. The hum in my ears gets louder and I know the worst thing I can do right now. Because I know my mother better than she knows herself.

My body’s propelled out of the room by the overpowering urge to run, but there’s something else, too, deep inside my chest, egging me on, fluttering in its cool, smug space. Hola, chica. When she calls my name, my mother’s voice sounds a long way away, like someone’s twisting it, squeezing out the last drop. I hesitate, but then I’m pulling the handle on Dom’s heavy Victorian front door and it smashes back against the wall. The sun hits me like a spotlight and, behind me, I hear something solid and glass hit the floor and shatter.

For a microsecond I feel bad for Mickey and George.

But I’m already gone girl.

38

Wolfie

I don’t have a plan, but I have legs. All I know is I need to get away from that house, that street. As far from my mother and my uncle as I can.

I run the first hundred metres, but when I turn and look back of course there’s nobody following me, so I slow to a fast walk. Tranquila, chica. I put my head down and focus on my feet, paying just enough attention to what’s around me not to get myself run over. I imagine the irony and it’s almost tempting.

I keep up the pace, ignoring the sweat that’s starting to pool on my collarbone and concentrating on my trainers, lifting and falling, pedalling me forward. As my feet connect with the road or the pavement or the verge, I get random flashes of Lou and the Tesco van man with his eighteen-year unblemished record. Head down.

I power through a place where there are lots of other feet and I have to swerve to make my way, then I veer left down a quiet road where I go for five minutes without passing anyone. After a while, I find myself alongside a park and I go through an opening at a sign that says Primrose Hill. It’s lovely and green, and I pass a steady procession of human feet and dogs’ feet and pram wheels, and I think, I bet the view is great. But I keep my head down. The only way out is through.

Out of the park, I cross a road and then I’m down by the water. Regent’s Canal, the sign tells me. I came here with Happy Larry once after we’d been to the zoo, and it crosses my mind it might be quite nice to pop over there and cosy up to the lions and tigers. I keep that in my back pocket and it feels good to have options.