I guess Becca and I have been closer since that day, protective of one another. She often ruffles my hair and jokes that I saved her life, that she owes me, but it’s not really true. I can still see it so clearly, though. The red ball we were playing with sits on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I don’t know why I’ve kept it, why I get it out sometimes and roll it in my palms.

“Do you still have fits?” I ask her now.

“Haven’t for a while. I’m hoping I’ve not just vommed out my latest dose.”

“You should be careful, Bec.”

She smiles at me. Liquid glistens around her mouth. “All right, Nurse Anxious.”

She hauls herself up, splashes her face, uses her finger to rub toothpaste into her tongue. Her trendy hair is all matted and moist. She flushes the toilet, then flips down the lid and sits on it. “You were right,” she whispers.

I perch on the edge of the bath. “About what?”

“Nick.”

I look at her in surprise. “I thought you were getting on with him.”

“He is charming.” Becca fiddles with her earlobe. “And good-looking. I can see why your mum—”

“Urgh,” I break in. “Don’t.”

“Is that why you went to bed? Were you pissed off with me?”

I shrug, not wanting to admit how I’d thumped my pillow, almost cried into it with frustration.

“Oh, Kay-Kay, I forget how sensitive you are.” Becca pinches my cheek and I blush, flapping her away. “I was just sounding him out,” she continues. “And there’s something . . . I don’t know. The way he’s always watching your mum.”

My annoyance evaporates. “You noticed that too?”

“And when I went to the toilet, I came back to them standing by the kitchen window, whispering. As soon as they saw me, Nick gave your mum this look and they both shut right up.”

I nod urgently. She’s on my side after all, and I have to keep her there, have to make her see. “They often stop talking when I come into the room.” My voice wobbles with the relief of having an ally. “And her bruises . . .” Tears push into my eyes.

“Have you spoken to her about it?”

I shake my head. “She won’t talk to me like she used to.”

“You have to try. Or . . . I could, if you want?”

“You’d do that?”

Becca slides off the toilet onto the floor. She lays her head on my knee, where I’m sitting on the damp bath edge, and hugs me around my middle. I can see the porcelain skin on the back of her neck where her hair rises to its shortest point.

“Don’t worry, Nurse Anxious,” she says. “We’ll sort this.”

18.

CHRIS

“More chicken, Chris?”