‘Then thank you,’ Kelly says. For a moment that distant look comes into her face again, and then it’s gone. ‘For trusting me.’

And as she turns away to dish up the pasta, I’m standing inside that small, airless room in the crematorium again. Furniture polish and the cloying lilies. Mum’s coffin up on a curtained dais – open, because she’d always suffered from claustrophobia; would have recurring nightmares about being buried alive. A low hum of conversation, the odd clearing of a throat or creak of a floorboard. And me doing nothing at first but just standing there, looking up at that dais. Looking at the demon squatting next to Mum’s coffin – bony, hairless, with too many teeth in his mouth, like bad dentures. Listening to his claws scratching on the varnished floor through all the readings and the songs. And then, at the end, watching as he turned to grin at me before climbing into Mum’s coffin and trying to close its lid.

Even though I rarely recalled anything that happened to me when I was manic, I remember all of this. Mum’s pale and powdery face, her thin hands crossed over her chest. His smell, like rotting leaves. The shadow he cast over her yellow silk dress when he climbed in. I remember how many people it took to restrain me, to stop me from pulling my own mother out of her coffin. I remember my screams. And I remember the fear. Like nothing I’d ever felt before. Like the end of the world. Or worse, the start of a new one.

CHAPTER 6

There is, I can tell, such a united and palpable effort not to look our way when Kelly and I push through the private door into the pub that it almost makes me want to laugh. And then run. Instead, I return the sentiment by keeping my eyes trained on the paisley-patterned carpet as Kelly marches us towards the bar. By the time we get there, the low hum of conversation has resumed, although I don’t doubt for a second that it’s mostly about me.

Gillian turns round from the till and gives me a smile that I’m not expecting.

‘Kelly said you’d be coming to our wee do tonight, you’re very welcome.’

‘Thank you.’ I can still feel other eyes on me, and my answering smile stretches too wide, goes on for too long.

‘What’ll you be having?’

‘Just a small white wine, please?’

‘Same for me, please, Gillian,’ Kelly says, handing over a tenner.

I glance at the glossy tiles behind the spirits and optics, reflecting movement in the lounge over my shoulder. ‘Are they still looking?’

‘Ignore ’em.’ Kelly grins. ‘Pretend you’re on the Central Line.’

When Gillian comes back with our drinks, I pull myself up onto the stool next to Kelly and tap my glass against hers. ‘Cheers. So. You and Jaz. Are you—’

‘Christ, no! He’s like forty-something. He’s just a good guy. And he’s really great with Fraser. He helped me out when I first started working shifts in the pub, and I guess … I mean, I’m probably taking advantage now – I do that, I take the piss – but I’m just really glad that Fraser has some kind of decent male influence in his life.’ She pauses. ‘His dad’s a dickhead. He’s the reason we had to leave Glasgow.’