I chewed on my nails as I watched them, vaguely wondering why they were out so late. Wherever they had been must have been somewhere nice. I leaned against the wall, imagining a dinner with three courses, white tablecloths and crystal wine glasses.

They stopped to cross the road and Rebecca turned in my direction. Her glance swept over me with no hint or sign of recognition, but I couldn’t pull my gaze away from her. She was beautiful, yet that lovely clear-skinned face, those eyes, they still held the same look that she’d worn at school.

Sad, worried, filled with pain.

I raised a hand in greeting, a tentative half-wave. Rebecca blinked. Her lips parted. Just as quickly, she turned and was gone.

I pulled my coat tighter around me and started home. Maybe she just looked like that because it took time to get over what she’d been through. I told myself that I was happy for her, but my clenched jaw and fingers that curled into fists revealed the lie.

At home, my mother was in her usual place, on the sofa, wrapped in her dressing gown with a blanket over her knees. She was shivering violently.

‘You took my money,’ she hissed when I came into the room. ‘Carl came round and I couldn’t get my stuff off him because you took my money.’

I took a seat opposite her. ‘I told you not to let him in, don’t you remember?’ She stared at me blankly, her teeth chattering, her tongue slipping in and out of her mouth. ‘I said I was going to get it for you, so you don’t need to let Carl in any more.’

As I spoke, I drew out one of the foil envelopes and she lunged for it. I went to pull it away – I wanted to talk to her first, to ask her if she could try and get better – but I was too slow and she snatched it out of my grasp.

Into the kitchen she moved at speed, rifling in the drawers, getting her spoon, the needle, digging in the pocket of her gown for my belt.

‘Mum, I need to talk to you,’ I pleaded. ‘I really want to try and help you to get better. I don’t want to have to live with you like this.’

Impatiently she brushed me aside and headed back to the living room. ‘I know, I’ll stop soon,’ she said as she set about heating the spoon with her lighter.

I watched the spoon as it turned brown and acrid. She didn’t even keep her paraphernalia separate. I would eat from that spoon, once I’d washed it up. A slow burn began inside of me, and I felt something close to hatred as the liquid began to bubble.

I left the room before she put the needle in her arm.