Mum’s lighter clicked, and Jess smelt fresh fag-smoke – though you could barely tell in this kitchen, the way the old bitch smoked. Bitch, yes. Bitches, Mum and Keira both. Frank was as thick as they claimed Jess was – brains of a pig – and as for Paul, brother or not, Jess’d gladly slit his throat if ever she could. She’d had enough; stupid worthless little Jess had finally fucking had enough.

“Right,” said Mum. “All we need now’s to keep it going till morning. Reckon we can do that.”

“Sure we’ll be all right, Liz?” Keira was scared too, even if she was trying to sound like she wasn’t. Good.

“Fine.” Mum grinned. “Listen out and you’ll hear. They’re keeping busy up there. If you’re lucky you’ll hear ’em screaming.”

Ellie Cheetham screaming. Dr Emmanuel screaming. Dr Emmanuel was nice. Jess remembered her warm dark eyes and gentle voice when she was pregnant, telling Jess she could help her if she needed it – to see someone from the Housing, or get rid of the baby if she’d wanted. And Jess’d wanted to, but hadn’t dared. Bring the outside world down on the family? She’d never have been forgiven for that, nor having an abortion. But if she had, she might have a flat of her own now somewhere far from here. Maybe a job, too. Definitely a life. Far from Mum, Keira, or Paul. But she’d been afraid to say anything – afraid to even think of living without the family – back then. Now, though? Now, it was different.

Then again, if she had got away what state’d she be in now? Maybe none: maybe this was only happening here, and she’d have been safe in Matlock or Derby. Or maybe Mum was right and this was the beginning of the end, and They’d be cutting off Jess’ skin right now. But she’d have had a few months with a life of her own, believing she had a future. She could almost see it: for the first time in her life she could actually imagine how it could have been different, how she could have made it different. But now that chance was gone, and what future could she expect instead? A life spent at Barrowman Farm, shouted at by Mum, jeered at by Keira, used by Paul when there was no-one else around – and there wouldn’t be anyone else, not anywhere, if all Mum’s tales were true?

Jess wanted to cry, but knew she mustn’t. If they thought she was scared she’d only be made a mock of, but her tears would be of anger, not fear. And if they ever knew that – knew how much she hated them and wanted to be free of them – God help her.

“I’ll go up,” said Keira. “The attic. Listen out.” She grinned. “Maybe we’ll be able to hear.”