‘Stop it, Corinne—’

‘Beth never told anyone. She thought no one would believe her. That you all loved Melissa.’

‘That’s enough—’

‘That you would never believe her. The abuse went on for months—’

‘I said that’s enough!’ he roared.

Anger flared in his brain, unwanted thoughts and images trickling into the corners of his mind. He pushed them away, turning on her.

‘I don’t want to hear any more of this!’ he told her. Aware that he was shouting, he went on: ‘This is all just bullshit. You’re making this up.’

‘I’m not—’

‘Why should we believe a word of what you say? All the lies you’ve told us about your own family, your sister.’

‘This is different—’

‘My sister loved Beth. And how dare you besmirch that love, make it out to be something sordid and twisted. The woman is dead, for Christ’s sake! She can’t even defend herself against this crap!’

‘It’s true,’ Corinne protested softly. Her eyes flicked to Abi. ‘You believe me.’

In the heat of their exchange, he hadn’t noticed Abi, too focused on his own indignant rage. But now he turned his gaze and saw that she was no longer standing. She was leaning weakly against a chair, all the colour drained from her face.

‘My God,’ she said quietly, bringing her gaze up to meet his.

Her eyes were large, frightened pools and he saw the creeping realization in them, the horrified belief.

‘My God,’ she kept saying, over and over.

All this time, his mind had been fighting against the idea, convinced that it was another one of Corinne’s stories. But now he glimpsed his wife’s thoughts and the gates began to open, unwelcome images creeping in.

The room around him tilted, the furniture looked strange. Could it be true? The words blew up in a storm and there was nothing he could do. He stood in the middle of it all, helpless to ward it off. And then his eyes lit on the sculpture standing on the table – the delicate flying buttresses, the solid twin towers. All the hours he’d put into it – a childhood hobby he’d revived. It flashed across his mind, the long afternoons and evenings he’d spent as a boy with his sister, working side by side. His stomach turned. He lurched forward and with one quick sweep of his arm, the sculpture shattered. For a moment, his eyes widened with wonder at the matches scattered over the floor and the furniture, the broken shards of the foundations remaining on the tray. He couldn’t look at Corinne.

‘Get out,’ he told her.

They talked long into the night. In the kitchen, Mark poured out vodka for both of them and they sipped from their glasses at the table in the window. At one point, Abi said shakily: ‘What I wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now.’