‘All right, then.’ She drew in a deep, warm-sounding breath. A total lack of panic. ‘Will you let me help you clean up a little?’ She nodded downwards. ‘You’re caked in blood.’

Matty looked at the dark crust of red on the pillow. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. Move gently, now.’

Matty sat on the toilet seat as the woman got out a jar of cotton balls and ran the hot tap. She didn’t say anything about the boy-pants. She poured a dash of salt into the sink, and something from a small bottle. ‘Tea tree,’ she said.

There were glasses of stones on the windowsill. The tropical shimmer of an abalone shell.

The woman sat on the side of the bath. ‘You don’t want photos taken, or …?’ She looked carefully at Matty. Each of her eyebrows looked like the silhouette of a far-off bird. Strong, simply sketched. ‘I’ve a digital camera.’

‘No.’

‘As long as you’re sure.’ She waited a moment longer, and when there was no response, began to dab at the cheekbone.

A faint sting. The soft, spreading heat made Matty want to cry.

Slowly, the cotton ball was moved up. Eyebrow, lip. The memory of being five or six after a fall, and of Rosa. No more chasing, Maddy. My silly angelo. Matty carefully turned a palm over, flexed fingers. Dried blood under two nails. His blood. The fingers on the other hand didn’t flex at all.

The woman put her hand under it, examining the skin. ‘You’ve got a bit of glass in there.’ She twisted round to a cupboard, turning back with tweezers.

She didn’t look up as she spoke, carefully dropping the splinter into the bin. ‘I know what happened to you. It’s obvious enough. You were attacked.’ Hearing the words was like parts of it happening again, in sharp, flashbulb images. ‘You’ll need a doctor to look at you, if you were—’

‘I wasn’t. I wasn’t—’ Matty fumbled for the mug on the side of the sink, hand trembling. The sweetness of honey and sharpness of lemon. ‘He would’ve, but—’ It couldn’t be articulated.

‘People like that should be stopped,’ the woman said, glancing up.

Did she know? She’d seen the inside of the van. ‘No police.’ A held breath. ‘I think I really hurt him.’

‘You were defending yourself.’ She carried on dabbing, before reaching for a brown bottle of TCP. Beer-brown. The colour of the glass that went into him. ‘I’ve got someone I could call.’

‘No. Please don’t tell anyone.’ The fierce sting of the antiseptic made Matty hiss.

She held the cotton ball in the air. ‘OK?’

‘Yeah.’ No.

She carried on, holding Matty’s hand lightly, swiping the grazes on the palm. ‘Anywhere else, do you think?’

A shake of the head.