He moved down the path, his head low, his shoulders hunched. I watched him until he had vanished into the black night.

I didn’t go to school the next day, and nobody called or came round to see where I was.

Nobody cared.

I’d thought that someone might report the disturbance that she made, on and off, night and day. I watched from the window, saw a few people from the estate walking past and angling their heads upwards at the screams and curses. I held my breath when I heard sirens, or when official-looking cars drove past. But nobody came.

Nobody cared.

It never occurred to me that I could call the social services, or the police. What did I know about safeguarding at that age?

On the third night, somebody finally came. It was almost midnight, and I hadn’t slept for two nights. When the knock sounded, my legs collapsed beneath me. I felt wetness on my face and I swiped at the tears as I pulled myself up and staggered to the door.

Two men huddled in the porch, dressed in black, their faces, thick and plump and red, creased in frowns. Wordlessly, I looked at them, but the gratitude I wanted to convey wouldn’t come, so I stepped back and let them in.

‘She’s up there,’ I said, pointing to the stairs.

In silence, they thudded up to the landing, giving me long, lingering looks on the way. I sat on the bottom step, wondered where I would go, and suddenly I was so, so tired that I could have slept right there. Would they let me stay in my own home just for tonight? I wondered. I thought of Rebecca and how she had been given to a family who loved and cared for her. My breath caught at the excitement of potential change.

Upstairs, sounds were magnified. The bolt slid across; an intake of breath; short, sharp words from one of the men. My heart spun in my chest: was she dead? I turned and crawled up the stairs, holding onto the wall for support as I turned the corner. One of the men lurched past me, shoving me out of the way as he put his arm over his mouth.

‘I-I had to do this,’ I said to nobody.

I peered into the room. By the bed, the bucket had been overturned, and liquid waste pooled on the carpet. The bedclothes were pushed to one side, the sheets yellow and damp. My mother was slumped on the floor with her back against the bed. She was naked, angry red scratches criss-crossing up and down her arms. The remaining man leaned over her, his body blocking my view of what he was doing.