Lying back and stretching her toes, Connie listened to the music. She would stay in the bathroom until Victor and Kenneth had gone.

She added bath salts to the water. It made the water green, like a river slick with algae – only it was getting too hot; beads of sweat had broken out on her skin. Still she let the hot tap run because, despite the heat, it was good to be here. Her body felt light, but now her mind was drifting to those women who took boiling baths, drank too much gin and used knitting needles. She shuddered imagining it, even though she had already tried dragging furniture around, rearranging the sitting room. And now this hot bath. Would Dorothy’s contact suggest this? What else would Connie have to do? Would she end up like Harry’s cousin – or was it his cousin’s friend?

Her mind was struggling to focus and she felt horribly sick, but she stayed in the bath with the hot tap running and the steam rising. A few more minutes and it could all be done. Then she felt a sensation, a tiny quickening. Struggling, she sat up. Was that the baby? Surely it was too soon? Did it know what Connie was doing? In a panic, she leaned forward. The room spun as she groped for the plug and wrenched it out. Clamping both hands on the side of the bath, she hauled herself upwards. Dizzy and stumbling, she reached the toilet, leaned over it, and vomited in painful spasms. Cilla stopped. The Beatles took over. There was a knock on the door.

‘Are you all right?’ Her father spoke, his voice full of concern. She gulped, chest heaving. ‘Connie?’

Turning off the transistor, she swallowed hard. ‘I’m fine. Won’t be a minute.’ Guilt joined forces with nausea as she wiped the spittle from her mouth. If only he knew.

If only she could tell him.

Shivering, she drew her knees to her chest, clasping them tightly to stop the trembling. As she waited for the shaking to subside, she imagined the baby slipping through her in a bloodied mess.

She thought the men had left. In her bedroom, she dressed and brushed her hair, tying it with a band. When she opened the door, she heard voices. Victor had gone, but Kenneth was there.

They were talking about the rent.

‘One more month,’ she heard her father say, ‘and I’ll pay off the debt.’

Connie’s heart sank. Where would he get that kind of money?

Kenneth sighed. ‘I have to say that’s very unfortunate. Very unfortunate indeed.’

Connie could imagine his bird-like gaze flickering around the room, his skinny fingers drumming on the edges of the chair.

‘I’ve helped you several times,’ he added. ‘The sum is growing. Debt is debt and I am meticulous in calling it in.’