There was a banging, then a sound of something breaking. Irene opened her eyes, dazed. There was sun shining through the curtains again; how was that possible? Was there someone downstairs? She felt dizzy in the unexpected light. Her head buzzed and hummed like a computer revving up; her swollen tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Were there footsteps? She blinked. Everything was unfamiliar but the same; nightmarish sameness. She lifted her hand and saw streaks of red. She smelt the ammonia-tang of urine. She’d wet her sheets like a baby. The door swung open.

‘Irene? Irene!’

She tried to pull the duvet towards her to cover her nakedness, but it was in a knotted heap at the bottom of her bed. She crossed her hands over her genitals, like a figure in a Victorian painting, and turned her face away.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said.

‘Irene, speak to me. Oh gracious, what’s happened here? I’m calling an ambulance.’

‘No! I’m not hurt. Please!’

She succeeded in pulling the duvet over her. Her whole body flushed hot with shame. She smelt the piss, saw the blood; the bottle of whisky half-empty on the table beside her. She saw Catherine Wattisham’s stern, aghast face under her permed grey hair; her neat tweedy body amid the stinking wreckage of the room.

‘What idiotic thing have you been up to?’

‘I was about to get up. I’ve cried enough now I think. Yes, for sure.’

‘Look at me. Now! I need to know you’re all right. Have you taken anything?’

‘Whisky,’ said Irene, waving a limp hand towards the bottle.

‘No pills?’

‘Pills? No! I wouldn’t do that. Is that what you thought? How can you think that? I just wanted to –’

‘Where are you bleeding – are you menstruating?’

‘What? No. Mirror broke. My feet.’

Dimly she remembered the spider in the glass. She half-raised herself and squinted towards the end of the bed. Yes, the mirror was broken, and the lamp. There were shards of glass all over the carpet. Drops of blood. There was something else too – a face in the cracked glass: a ghastly blood-smeared white face, with bleary eyes and an encrusted mouth; a crop of sticky, matted hair.

‘Oh God,’ she said, putting her hands over her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see. ‘God. I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ve been unbelievably stupid.’

Catherine pulled the duvet off her feet and started probing them with cool fingers. ‘Yes, you certainly have,’ she said. ‘Hold still, there’s still a bit of glass in you.’

‘I’m all right now. I can manage.’

‘Only a few grazes. You’re lucky; it could have been far worse. How long have you been like this?’

Irene frowned. It hurt to think. ‘How long? I don’t know. What day is it now?’

‘Thursday morning.’