He sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Shall we go then?’ I stand up.

A bell begins to clang.

‘Wait. Sit down.’

He grabs my hand and pulls me into his lap. ‘My girl,’ he whispers, crushing me against him and hiding his face in my hair.

‘Dad – ’ My legs are twisted under me. My skirt’s ridden up too far.

Then he begins to rock slightly, and his breath goes funny, shaky. Hot air from his mouth makes my cheek wet. Above us, the branches make a slight creaking sound, like ships in films.

‘Dad – ’

‘Sorry, love.’

But he’s still clinging on. I wonder what I can do to make his job easier. I know he’s leaving. I’ve heard them arguing for weeks. I’ve heard Dad say that he’d rather chew off his own hand than stay in her trap. Like an animal.

Shoulders heaving, his fingers dig into my spine.

We cling to each other under the tree. ‘It’s OK,’ is all I can think to say.

Eventually, his hands release me. When he looks me in the eye his face is crumpled and red, like a bruise. ‘You’ll come and see me?’

I nod.

‘And you’ll look after Shane?’

After a pause, I nod again.

Then he says, ‘Your mother’s not all bad.’

Then he says, ‘I meant what I said, about working hard.’

Then he says, ‘I’ll drop you off at home, but then I’ll go.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far. I’ll phone.’

‘Can I come with you?’ As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t.

He reaches out and strokes my hair. ‘Not now, love. Maybe later.’

As we walk back up the High Street, past the colleges with their bright green squares of light and back to the multi-storey, I let him hold my hand.

six

August, 1985

In the shed, I sit on the floor at Shane’s feet and lean back against his shins.

We’re both silent.

Shane always closes the door and he never opens the window, but I’m used to the smell of the warm creosoted wood now. It smells like stewed tea. Cake crumbs are scattered over the floor, already drying in the heat. Spots of chocolate buttercream are smeared into the boards. I swallow the last of our chocolate layer cake and lick each finger clean.

Shane dangles a pair of pink plastic hoops in front of my eyes. I try to turn to look at him, but he catches my face in his hands, tilts my head backwards and clamps his knees hard around my scalp. Taking each earlobe between his finger and thumb, he makes a dip and a pull with the earrings, hooking me up like a fish. Then he runs a finger along my bottom lip, hard. ‘Messy,’ he says, showing me the chocolate on his finger.

‘Mind my lipstick.’

He laughs. Shane’s laugh is low and quiet, like it’s half-hidden, a long huh-huh. ‘Are you my girlfriend?’ he asks.

I twist free of his knees and turn round. His T-shirt’s too small. What looks like a waistband of flesh bulges beneath it, and I can see his belly button sticking out. I haven’t seen that before. It looks like Shane has a hole that someone’s stuck a screw into. A flesh-coloured screw.