Decades later, in the safety of her quiet Harrogate living room, Alison gave a violent shudder and tipped back the rest of her wine in a single gulp, trying to block out the image, to shut the door on it, just as she had done in real life. She’d closed that door tight, locked it, put the key in her dressing-gown pocket, because there were some things in life that a child should not see, should not have to deal with, should never be told about even. Then, with the same numb composure, she’d called her mum – ‘I need you to come and get Robyn for me. Please. As soon as possible’ – before screwing up the note Rich had left (‘Why’s he sorry? Did he break something?’ Robyn, a child brimming with questions, would ask, if she saw it) and burying it deep in the kitchen bin, beneath the teabags and potato peelings and eggshells.

A sudden heart attack, she’d told Robyn a few days later, when it was safe for her to come home, all evidence of her father’s true death discreetly removed by a pair of kind policemen; a packet of prescription sleeping tablets newly arrived on Alison’s bedside table, the only thing that could knock her out at night. Was it wrong to rewrite history, to blur a few lines, when it was your own child you were protecting? Whatever – she had stuck to the story ever since, moving to a new house, a new area, just as soon as she could, to escape any gossip that might be lingering.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop it,’ Alison said viciously to herself now, standing up suddenly and walking quickly into the kitchen, as if trying to shake off these dark memories with the movement. ‘What is the point? Stop brooding, you stupid woman.’ She poured out more wine and drank the glass straight down while she was standing there at the kitchen worktop, the alcohol puckering her mouth like medicine, the thunder still booming and rumbling outside.

In the next moment, as the thunder rolled away, she heard a voice from the other room, a male voice speaking urgently, and for a second she thought she was going mad, that she had somehow conjured up her long-dead husband. Mad? Or drunk? She rushed back to the living room, only to see – oh, thank heavens! – the television back on again and a newsreader speaking solemnly about the latest refugee crisis, at which point she collapsed heavily into the sofa, a sob escaping her throat.

‘Thank you,’ she croaked to the television.

A power surge? A loose connection? Who knew, but there was her laptop busily refreshing itself as well, all back to normal. Panic over.