The two girls were often sitting out on the lawn behind the gatehouse together, Sony Walkmans on, whispering, giggling, listening to Irene Cara singing ‘Fame’ and Survivor doing ‘Eye of the Tiger’. Their lovely ‘Uncle’ Beezer drove them into town, bought them sweets, made them laugh at his dumb jokes. They both adored him.

‘Yeah, Harlan is a creep,’ agreed Milly, arranging her legs so that the fat between her thighs didn’t stick together quite so painfully. The two of them were eating Twisters and discussing everything.

Milly frowned, as she always did when their chat turned toward Harlan. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but she couldn’t forget what she’d found in Harlan’s bedroom. That had triggered other things in her brain – like the crazy things Mum had said to her, before yet another admission to the mental institution. That Uncle Beezer had seen Harlan going into Jake’s nursery on the morning he’d died, and Harlan had always hated little Jake because he’d taken Harlan’s place in Charlie’s affections. Then Mum, falling down the stairs, her feet slipping on Harlan’s skateboard.

She could have been killed.

And ever after, Nula had reacted to Harlan with fear – whenever she was at home, which wasn’t often. The death of her baby and the weirdness of her adopted son had screwed with her brain big time. Poor Mum, no wonder she was crazy.

‘You really like Nipper,’ said Belle. ‘Don’t you.’

Milly thought that maybe ‘like’ was too strong a word. She knew she wasn’t aiming high, having him for a boyfriend, and she wasn’t keen on all the sex stuff, but it seemed to make him happy, so she did it. She was pleased to be a ‘normal’ girl, like any other. She lived in terror of missing her bleeds, but he was careful, and – well – that was a woman’s life for you, she’d figured that much out.

She wished she had a proper mother to talk to, but there was no way that any of this shit could be discussed with Nula. The slightest stress, and she went totally off her tree. But Milly was literally dying to share her secrets with somebody. She didn’t want to even think about the dinner she’d sat through last night, with Dad and that oily little Colombian Javier Matias with his greased-back hair and his paunchy stomach. The guy was her dad’s age, and yet he’d – ugh, disgusting or what? – seemed to be flirting with her through most of the meal. And Dad had sat there smiling throughout, as if this was perfectly OK with him.