‘You don’t understand… I’ve been protecting you,’ I pleaded. ‘Because I love you so much. But it’s not helping any of us. You need to hear the truth now.’

‘I can’t do this again,’ she said, voice breaking, and then there was silence. She’d hung up.

I sat there for a few seconds in shock, the phone still held to my ear as if she might ring back and apologize, before bursting into noisy tears.

‘Oh my God!’ wailed Hannah, gesturing to Marco to pull the car over. ‘Your family are so horrible to you.’

Soon she’d wedged herself alongside me in the back, luggage piled so high around us that Marco could barely see to drive, staying there with me most of the way home. ‘This is why we need each other,’ she said solemnly. ‘We have to be each other’s mirrors, the way Amber is for all of us.’

I let my head rest against her broad bulk, the odd sob erupting unbidden. Hannah stroked my hair, made soothing noises: it was a reversal of roles that the superior version of me from Christmas Eve would never have believed possible. Eventually I let myself feel safe enough to fall asleep, leaning heavily against her, the real world temporarily blotted out.

It was gone nine by the time Marco pulled his car to a stop outside my flat. I looked up with trepidation, jealous of the fact that the two of them would be curled up like one life form as they came down from the intensity of the workshop. But then trepidation gave way to something far worse.

There was a light burning brightly in my living room. Someone was waiting for me to come home.

LILY

I know I did the right thing that night, whatever anyone says. The right thing isn’t always the popular thing.

Ask anyone who’s fought as hard as me for justice.

RACHEL

Hannah and Marco insisted on coming upstairs with me. ‘What if it’s burglars?’ said Hannah, but I knew it wouldn’t be. Was an emotional terrorist better or worse than someone rifling through my unimpressive collection of high-street jewellery? I led them up the two flights of stairs and turned the key, an embarrassing whiff of kitchen bin invading my nostrils as soon as I opened the door. It was the least of my problems.

Mum was standing there, shoulders squared for a fight.

‘How dare you just let yourself in?’ I was screaming at her, right from the off. ‘How have you even got a key?’

Hannah stepped forward protectively, my familiar.

‘When your daughter’s a drug addict you have to make provisions for the worst,’ she said, deliberately calm. She looked at Hannah – her straggly hair pulled back from her pink face with a rubber band, her days-old tracksuit bottoms crumpled and stained – with utter contempt.