‘You can’t know that. Maybe he had it planned that way all along; after all, he’s the one who took me up to the clifftop. Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.’ I don’t believe he survived but I’m taunting her, to punish her for what she never paid for. Her entitlement is staggering; the belief that they could do whatever they wanted and that was OK because they were in love makes me seethe. I’ve also realised that every time I mention the girl who went missing, she tries to change the subject. Mandy must be alive still. She may even be here.

I push past my mother. She moves aside surprisingly easily; I can feel her frailty as she stumbles out of my way.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the guest house in the garden,’ I say. I walk through the kitchen, grabbing the key from the drawer on my way – nothing has changed, only become worn and more broken as time has passed. Everything is dark and dirty, as though she stopped living the night I ran away. I try the handle and look back to my mother. She is struggling to regain her composure. I can see she is weighing up what to do, whether or not she could take me down before I got the door open. I see her decide she can’t and so she resumes a weaker stance, as if she is some frail old lady, though she isn’t that old. I don’t know if her act is for my benefit or if she is preparing herself for when the police arrive.

I walk through the garden and place my hand on the handle of the guest house door. The last time I did this my whole world turned upside down. Was it about to happen again? Nothing could be worse than the things I had already seen, the things I had done. I steel myself and unlock the door to the guest house, taking the key with me so she can’t lock the door behind me. I know she is capable of great evil; I don’t want to assume that just because I am her daughter I would be spared.

The dust catches in the back of my throat as I enter. It’s pitch-black as the windows are all covered, so I run my hand along the wall until I find the light switch. I hear my mother’s tentative steps behind me and it crosses my mind that she could swing for me. I’m not convinced about the level of her fragility. On the floor in the bedroom is a mattress and a bundle of what appears to be blankets and an old sleeping bag. It’s the same sleeping bag I had seen resting on the chair all those years ago.

‘Mandy? Is that you?’