She could hear Imelda pottering about in the kitchen, and she pulled herself upright in her bed. Lighting a cigarette, she pulled the smoke deeply into her lungs. She had been sick over and over again – Imelda had even had to pull over in a bus stop so she could once more empty her belly of alcohol. Now she was more or less sober, but the pain had not lessened at all.

She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was past three o’clock, and she wondered if she would ever again sleep through the night; she very much doubted it. She looked around her bedroom; it was huge, decorated red and gold. Her Jack used to say it was a poor man’s Buckingham Palace, and she had known then that he had no respect for how lucky he was.

He had killed that young girl, beaten her to death. It was so hard to believe; he had been her baby – how had he become someone like that? How had he become a man capable of harming a female?

She felt the sting of tears once more, felt the deep sorrow that she would never see her son again.

Imelda came into the bedroom with a mug of hot, sweet tea. Ria sipped at it gratefully, the tears still streaming down her face, the pain of her loss as acute as a knife in her heart.

‘Don’t worry, Mum, everything will be OK.’

Ria nodded at her daughter, unwilling to talk about it to anyone. Imelda was obviously as upset as she was, and Ria understood that. This was a traumatic time for them.

Imelda sat on the bed and, taking her mother’s hand in hers, she held on to it gently, trying her hardest to give her mother some kind of comfort.

Ria pulled her hand away, and held on to her mug of tea as tightly as she could. ‘Get yourself home, Mel. You have your own family, love. I’m OK, darling. Your dad will be in soon.’

Imelda looked at her mother in abject disbelief. ‘Can you hear yourself, Mum? Do you realise what he’s fucking done? My dad!’

Ria sighed heavily. ‘Stop this now, Mel, I mean it, you stop it.’

Imelda was so shocked by her mother’s words, and what they actually meant, she was unable to answer her. Unable to believe what she was hearing. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum, whatever Jack’s done he’s still your son! My little brother . . .’

Ria sipped at her tea again, unable to look her daughter in the eye; she was not prepared to listen to anything detrimental about her husband, it would only add to her pain. ‘Go home, Mel, and I mean it. This is about a lot more than you realise, love. One day you will understand all this, believe me. Until then, let me grieve for my son in peace.’