Four days after Archie’s accident, Stacey turns up at our house at seven in the morning with a black eye.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Tom says, when she walks into the kitchen behind me. ‘What on earth happened to you?’

‘That fucking bastard,’ I hiss.

Even Tom can’t ignore this.

He pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and motions to her to sit down. ‘What can I get you?’ he asks. ‘Tea? Coffee? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

‘It’s seven a.m.,’ I say.

‘Coffee,’ Stacey says. ‘Thank you.’

‘Let me take a look at your eye,’ I say.

‘It’s worse than it looks—’

‘I need to examine you properly, Stacey. He could’ve fractured your cheekbone.’

Gently, I palpate the area around her eye socket. A periorbital haematoma – a black eye – is caused when blunt force or trauma results in burst capillaries and subsequent haemorrhaging. The fatty tissues around the eye are soft and bruise easily when compressed against margins of bone which surround and protect the eye socket, and fluid tracks forward into the eyelid and quickly accumulates – hence the rapid swelling after an injury. As the blood decomposes and is resorbed, various pigments are released, which is what causes the lurid discolouration of a shiner.

Judging from the vivid blue and purple bruising, I’d say Stacey was hit sometime within the last twelve hours, probably late last night.

I fetch the pencil torch from my medical bag and shine it in her eyes to see if her pupils are dilating normally.

‘Can you follow my finger with your eyes?’ I ask.

I move my index finger from left to right, then up and down and diagonally across her field of vision. Her left eyelid is badly swollen, her eye narrowed to a tiny slit, but she manages to follow the tip of my finger.

‘I don’t think you have a fracture,’ I say, returning my torch to my bag. ‘And your vision seems normal. Once the swelling goes down in a day or two, you’ll be able to cover the bruising with make-up, but you’re going to have a black eye for at least a week, maybe more.’

Tom places her coffee in front of her. ‘Is this Felix’s handiwork?’ he asks.

She looks away. We both take her silence as assent.

‘You need to report him to the police, Stacey,’ Tom says. ‘Not just for your sake, but for Archie’s.’

‘He’d never hurt Archie,’ Stacey says quickly.

‘Until Archie fights back,’ I tell her. ‘You’re his mother. Sooner or later, Archie’s going to try to defend you, and then Felix will turn on him, too.’

I see my father’s hands around my mother’s throat, the vision so vivid the blood pounds in my head and my palms are suddenly damp.

With an effort, I blink the image away.