Carol was waiting for him. She had on no make-up, a shock in itself to Davey, who rarely saw her thus, and she was wearing a towelling dressing gown. On the floor by the coffee table were two cases.

‘What? You leaving me again, Carol?’ His voice was half-jocular, half-bored.

Carol stood up. Folding her arms, she smiled. ‘No, Davey, I’m not leaving you. I’m throwing you out.’

She watched with pleasure the look of absolute shock on his face. Then she saw him grit his teeth.

‘Listen, Carol, I ain’t in the mood for all this tonight, love. In fact, I am that far,’ he put his finger and thumb together to make a perfect O, ‘from smacking you one. And if you persist with this load of old crap, I will not only smack you one, I’ll slap you black and fucking blue!’

Carol faced him. ‘Oh you will, will you? Well, Davey Jackson, I am that far,’ she made the same perfect O at him, ‘from putting a knife right through your dirty stinking nonceing heart! Now take your bags and fuck off before I do just that. And another thing while we’re at it: I think you had better see a solicitor, mate, about access to Jamie and the other kids, because knowing what I know now, I don’t think I can allow you to see them without me or someone else present.’

She was hurting him, and she was enjoying it. As she saw the dawning of realisation hit his face, she smiled wickedly, even though her heart was breaking inside her chest.

‘Carol . . . Carol love, listen to me.’

He took a step towards her but she backed away.

‘No, Davey, I ain’t ever listening to you again. You dragged me into something that I would never, ever have dreamt you capable of. “A bit of old bluey”, you said. “Nothing too near the mark”, remember? “We even supply the Old Bill with the merchandise”, you said. You lying fucking scumbag! Now take your gear and get out. We’re over, Davey, finished. I put up with your abuse, your temper, your whoring and your prison sentences, but this little lot . . . That is the finish, mate, and I mean it. I take a fucking oath on it. Get out whoring again, go back to one of your silly little birds, do what the fuck you like - but get out of my house!’

Davey looked at the woman he had been forced into marrying, a woman he had loved in his own haphazard way over the years. The woman who had brought up his children, washed his clothes, cooked his food and visited him in prison. The thoughts of earlier in the day came back to him in a wave of fear.

‘Carol, darling, listen to me, love . . . Please - let me explain.’