Groaning slightly, she got out of the car. Inside the house, all was quiet. Kate went to the kitchen and turned on the light. She put the kettle on for a cup of coffee. Preparing three cups she went upstairs to her mother’s room. She opened the door slightly and listened. All she could hear were soft snores. She shut the door gently then went to her daughter’s room.

She opened the door and went inside. Lizzy lay in bed, with just her head showing. Kate tiptoed to her and looked down. Her long dark hair fanned out across the pillow. In the light from the streetlamp Kate could see the long dark lashes against her daughter’s cheekbones. Lizzy really was lovely. She had so much going for her, why had she felt the urge to destroy herself? Because as far as Kate was concerned, that was all people who took drugs wanted to do.

She felt a tear squeeze itself from the corner of her eye. Turning away, she looked at the familiar little room: the dolls, the make-up scattered over the dressing table, the books, haphazardly placed on their shelf. She had attempted to clean up at least.

Then Kate saw the piece of paper. Walking the few steps to the dressing table, she picked it up. Words registered in her mind, but she just could not comprehend them. She read the piece of paper again and again.

Sorry, Mum . . . Sorry, Mum. Tell Gran I love her . . . Tell Gran . . .

She dragged her eyes from the paper to the bed and the deathly whiteness of Lizzy’s skin made her spring into action. She dragged back the covers and stared. Even in the dim light she could see the blood. Somewhere in her mind she registered the fact it was still pumping.

Picking up a hand towel from a nearby chair, she wrapped both of Lizzy’s wrists tightly. Her fingers were suddenly stiff, she couldn’t control them. The hammering of her heart in her ears was like a drum beating.

She ran into her bedroom to phone an ambulance. She registered the blood on the white telephone. It was Lizzy’s blood. Lizzy’s. She answered the telephonist’s questions calmly and rationally, she had no idea how. It was the policewoman in her taking over.

Please hurry. Oh God, please hurry. She was not sure whether she was speaking out loud. She put down the phone and rushed back in to Lizzy.

Oh God, please let her be all right. I’ll do anything you want if you let her be all right. I’ll go to Mass every day of my life . . .

Like many another before, she was trying to bargain with God for her child’s life.

Then, somewhere in the stillness, she heard the ambulance siren.

It wasn’t until she was stumbling from the room that she saw her mother. Evelyn stood in her bedroom doorway, her face ashen.