She needed it, I knew that much. At lunchtime I’d gone to the library and read up on addiction. There was no point trying to make her stop; the brown stuff was too big for both of us.

I considered asking Kevin, our weed-smoking neighbour, if he knew where I could get some from. But by then I knew that heroin and marijuana were very different drugs, used by two very different types of people. Although I’d learned that the weed Kevin smoked was something called a ‘gateway drug’, and one day he might move on to my mother’s drug of choice too. So that night, when it was nearing midnight, I went out on the streets and headed to the rougher part of town, the Billingham Road. I wondered if I looked out of place in my winter tweed coat, my hair hidden under a black woollen hat and my mother’s scarf concealing the bottom of my face. To my relief, as I moved among the emaciated, toothless users, nobody gave me a second glance. Horror crept in as I realised that I must have looked like I belonged there.

I moved past the teenage youths, knowing they would be dealing weed or pills, and edged my way into a cluster of men. ‘Got any brown?’ I asked.

Three men melted away into the night, leaving one who looked me up and down. ‘For you?’ he asked.

I tried to detect a hint of surprise in his question, but realised he was just being careful, making sure I wasn’t a decoy.

‘For me,’ I confirmed.

‘What you got?’ he asked.

I took thirty pounds from my pocket. He looked bored, and I pulled the last tenner out. He snatched it, rubbed the notes between his fingers; then, to my astonishment, he handed me four packages wrapped in tin foil. Then, as suddenly as the other men who had been with him, he was gone.

I put the foil envelopes in my pocket. I couldn’t believe I had got four. Heroin, it seemed, wasn’t a very expensive habit after all, in spite of what Carl had told my mother.

I left Billingham Road and all the horrors it held, winding my way home. Across the road was a little cluster of people, dolled up, fancy. I pulled my hood up and watched them. A couple, an older man and woman, walked either side of a young girl. I looked at the girl with envy. She wore a pretty dress with a full skirt, and a hip-length white fur coat. Her hair was long and luscious, her face carefully made up. Her heels clicked on the pavement and I drew in a sharp breath.

It was Rebecca Lavery. The girl from my school who had been removed from her home and sent to a loving family. Were these her foster parents?