‘Trust me when I say he really, really was,’ Frannie says.

‘I trust you.’

Frannie moves away from him, up into the blackness of her garden, her dark hair disappearing first, leaving her pale shoulders, her pale legs, until nothing is left of her at all.

66.

Lydia

Lydia is sitting in her car, across the street from the house she shares with Joe, waiting. Deciding whether to go in. Trying to figure out how much having a baby comes into this decision. But Lydia has lines. They’re not the same as everybody else’s, which are learnt through experiences and good parenting, good guidance. Lydia drew hers with a therapist, with the help of her patient foster families. As a result, Lydia’s boundaries are firm, strong because they are artificial.

She assumes he is inside. It’s late. He will be sleeping. She considers what to do.

There’s a sound as another car arrives. The brakes screech. Lydia stares at it in surprise. The only traffic they usually experience is farm traffic in the early mornings. Lydia likes the rhythm of that. Noisy nature, cockerels and geese. Dairy trucks, tractors, the stench of hay that drifted by before she properly woke.

There is no reason for anybody to arrive now.

Ghosts fill Lydia’s mind as she watches. Who arrives outside houses in the middle of the night, apart from heartbroken women? Highwaymen, her brain says. Beggars. Murderers. Convicts. That’s who arrives at this hour.

She turns off the interior light in the car and watches as Joe answers the door. She holds her breath. He might surprise her. He might yet rescue this.

But Lydia watches it unfold and she thinks, Despite everything, I married somebody just like my violent fucking dad. She stares out of the car windows, and watches her line finally being crossed.

67.

Joe

Joe doesn’t quite make it up the stairs to bed before his life changes. He’s walking along his hallway when he sees the shadow outside his door.

He flings open the front door, his sister’s sad form still in his mind, and comes face to face with Evan. With no warning at all, he feels as vulnerable as a kid whose parents aren’t home.

‘All right,’ Evan says. His stance is strange. Joe scans it for a moment in shock, then realizes: he’s drunk. He’s trying to balance on his feet. Joe tenses his shoulders, making them look bigger than they are.

‘What?’ he says coolly. Inside his head, a mantra. This is my house. You are not welcome here. I call the shots. I make the rules.

‘Been thinking about this situation we find ourselves in,’ Evan slurs. He leans his right arm against the doorframe but lurches in so far that he loses his balance.

‘Piss off,’ Joe says. ‘It’s late. You’re drunk. I know what you said to my mum.’

Evan shrugs, not saying anything. ‘Your mum deserves to know who she’s in business with.’

‘More threats,’ Joe says lightly, trying to take the power back. ‘I wouldn’t be making threats in your position.’