‘You’re too young to be doing this, to be out by yourself at night,’ I pleaded when she returned close to dawn one morning. I had long since stopped being able to sleep, my anxiety and worry for her keeping me awake while I waited for her to return.

She smirked. ‘I’m not by myself.’

‘Then who are you with?’

She shrugged. ‘Friends.’

‘What friends?’

‘No one you know.’

‘There are bad people around,’ I told her. ‘Bad men who take advantage of young girls like you. Don’t you understand that, Hannah? Don’t you realize it’s not safe?’

‘So what? I’m having fun.’ And then she’d sneer and add, ‘You can’t stop me. You know you can’t.’

She was right, of course. She knew that the secret she held over us ensured we would never try to force the issue. We were too afraid of what she’d do, and she understood that only too well.

Gradually, the scruffy, shapeless T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms disappeared to be replaced with miniskirts and tight, low-cut tops; she would often go out with her face plastered inexpertly in make-up. It terrified me. Sometimes the police would bring her back, drunk or high. There they’d stand in our living room, describing how they’d found her at a squat party they’d searched for drugs, or hitching home alone at night, or getting stoned at bus stops with God knows who.

She loved that, the police involvement. Absolutely loved it. She’d watch us with her kohl-lined eyes, a smirk on her face while the police officers sat in our living room reminding us that she was a minor, that it was our responsibility to ensure she didn’t come to harm. She knew how terrified we were of them, that she could blow open our secret there and then with just a few choice words. And I would think of my sleeping boy upstairs beneath his Star Wars duvet and grit my teeth and say, ‘Yes, officer, we’re sorry. It won’t happen again.’

I grew used to the hostile looks from my neighbours, who no doubt thought it was all our fault, that if she were their child, they would have done things differently. No doubt they would have, but they didn’t have to deal with someone like Hannah, someone utterly devoid of conscience or love for us, someone who wouldn’t think twice about exposing us if we tried to force her hand.

Eventually, filled with a burning shame and dismay, I took to leaving packets of condoms in her underwear drawer when I knew she was out. She caught me only once. I turned to find her watching me from her bedroom door, the expression on her face one of amused enjoyment at my discomfort.