‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But I’ll definitely be in first thing, because I’m fine. Look at this.’ She lifted a hand, intending to show how steady it was, but when it trembled, she dropped it, explaining, ‘That’s shock, not concussion.’

Minutes later, she was travelling home in the back of a car, trying not to shut her eyes, because every time she did she heard Sammi Manning’s fragile voice, saw her singing on stage; the girl looked like she was weeping, and it made Sasha feel nauseous. When she got home and let herself inside, she smelled cooking meat and wondered if it was a sign she was having a brain haemorrhage.

‘You’re home!’ Her delighted mother came to meet her, a packet of salad in her hand. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I told you, we’re having a barbecue.’

Oh God, she thought. ‘I’m really not in the mood, Mum.’

It was bad enough being sent home. She had a headache, yes, but it wasn’t like she had double vision or couldn’t remember the names of her children. But she was there now, and wanted to get an early night so she was fighting fit tomorrow morning. Two children had been abducted and she didn’t feel like sitting around making happy-happy with Ursula.

‘It’ll do you a world of good.’

She followed her mother into the kitchen where Ursula took a cold bottle of white from the fridge to pour Sasha a large glass.

‘Not for me.’

‘If you don’t care to join in,’ her mum said in a voice dripping with disappointment, ‘be my guest, go to bed and we’ll have all the fun without you.’

Sasha saw the meat Ursula had bought for the barbecue on the counter. Plates of uncooked pork chops and sausages and steaks and chicken legs and beef patties, enough to feed an army.

‘I’ve put Kevin to work.’ She looked up from halving burger buns and gestured outside where he was firing up the grill. ‘And I’m doing the salad.’

She saw the bump on Sasha’s forehead and reached out to touch it. ‘What on earth happened?’

‘Ouch!’ It hurt when her mother pressed her fingers to it – what was she thinking? – and Sasha swatted her away. The last thing she was going to do was tell Ursula she had been slammed head first into a fruit machine. Her mother would only complain again about her job – ‘it’ll be the death of you’ was a favourite phrase – or more probably tell her off for hanging around the arcades. ‘I fell on the stairs at work.’

‘Then you should sue.’ Sasha picked up the glass of wine and Ursula took it from her. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t drink in your condition.’