I shuffle up to the wide reception, which has clear glass panels right the way along, like in the post office where Mum works but higher and wider. The people behind are surprisingly far away, sitting at separate desks typing busily. I try waiting until someone notices me, then eventually tap on the window. A woman glances up and heaves herself out of her chair.

“Can I help?”

“I’m here to . . . I need to talk to a policeman . . . or woman.”

“You’re looking at one.” Her tone isn’t nasty, but I blush and my tongue knots.

“I just need to tell someone . . .” My hand flutters toward my bag, where Mum’s bloodied top is balled up beside my school things.

“Have you witnessed a crime?”

My hand shies away. “Not exactly.”

“Have you done something?” She cocks her head. “Is there something you want to admit to?”

“No, no!” I shake my head, choked by tears. “I don’t want to say it out here,” I whisper.

I’m not sure whether I imagine her cluck of impatience. She goes over to her desk and returns with a clipboard and a piece of paper.

“Why don’t you fill out this form?” She nods toward the chairs, and I recoil from the chewing man and the broken-armed woman.

Normally I’d jump at the chance to write things down. I’m much better with words on paper. But the boxes and the dotted lines look so confusing: How will I know I’m ticking the right things? Will it go on a permanent record?

“Can’t I talk to someone in private?” I ask.

The woman sighs. “Wait here. I’ll see if one of the interview rooms is free. Can’t promise anything, though. I keep telling them these facilities aren’t up to scratch, we need an extension . . .” She wanders away.

At first I breathe out with relief, but while she’s gone I mull over what she said. Interview room. I picture two police officers firing questions at me, leaning in close, doing good cop/bad cop. Rationally I know it won’t be like that, but sweat breaks out on my face.

I imagine them taking Mum’s top and sending it away for tests. She’ll know I’ve been in her room, rummaged through her things. They’ll send someone round and she’ll get upset and angry, and her refusal to admit what’s going on will make me look like a liar. Nick will see how easy it is to crush my attempts to help her. Confirmation, once and for all, that Mum won’t betray him.

A photocopier on the other side of the screen starts to snarl and beep. The man in the waiting area shouts, “How much fucking longer?” Suddenly the girl with the broken arm sits forward and pukes onto the floor, the smell instant and horrible.

This isn’t right. It no longer feels right.