Alaric didn’t seem impressed, though. ‘Well, actually, she’s not in prison as such, not at the moment, but she’s been charged and she’s out on bail. She’s had to go and stay with her folks in Cornwall pending a trial, which might not be for a few months.’

Pressing the ‘open’ button on the till, I enjoyed as always the satisfyingly heavy ker-chunk sound as the drawer shot out, even while my mind was reeling from the news of Caitlin’s tribulations. I began emptying the float into the tray compartments from the plastic bags full of coin denominations that Alaric had dumped next to it.

This was one of my favourite jobs at work, reminding me of the toy till I had when I was about nine, and how much I’d loved compartmentalising coppers even back then. As I did it, I felt a huge surge of guilty relief at briefly escaping the stifling, sad atmosphere at home. The knowledge of Dad’s imminent demise was so crushing that I found myself repeatedly trying to ignore it altogether; pretend it wasn’t happening – which was a lot easier to manage when I was busy elsewhere.

‘Don’t do that yet,’ Alaric said irritably. ‘Shutters aren’t even up!’

I rolled my eyes, making sure he couldn’t see me. I hated opening the shutters, they were so heavy and had a tendency to come sliding back down with a huge screech and thud if you didn’t click them into place fast enough at the top. ‘OK. But why’s Caitlin been sent to trial? Surely not just for trespassing?’

Alaric took a milk bottle from his satchel and popped the foil top, pouring it into his tea. ‘She didn’t go into too many details on the phone, but she’s been charged with GBH. Apparently she poked a copper in the face with a stick while avoiding arrest. He’s been blinded in one eye. I reckon she’s looking at doing time – a couple of years at least.’

‘Shit.’ I was horrified.

As I went outside and grappled with the heavy shutters, my mind reeled. I felt sorry for Caitlin. I could see how easy it might be, in the heat and fear of dozens of angry uniformed men charging at us, shouting and swearing, to lash out in self-defence. If I’d had a stick in my hands before I was bodily carried off the silo, who was to say I wouldn’t have done the same? Caitlin was tiny, about seven stone; no wonder she’d felt that she needed to defend herself.