He passes his palm over the candle. ‘I did what everyone wanted. I went back to school. I helped Nina train and forced myself to smile.’ I pull his arm away from the flame and his jumper offers a fleeting memory of Nina. She was completely devoted to Stig, there was never anyone else for her – but for some reason he doesn’t like to admit that.

He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. ‘I remember walking home from school one night and looking in at the houses. I stopped at a window and saw a little boy doing a jigsaw puzzle with his father. The house had this orange glow; it was like looking at a Christmas card. I stood there, watching them. They seemed so happy, while I … I …’

I finish the sentence for him. ‘Felt like a house with the windows blown out?’

Stig nods and picks wax from the candle.

‘Every night I drank to forget. Every day I woke up wishing I were dead. When I looked in the mirror, it was like looking at a stranger’s face, like I was putting eyeliner on another person. But as long as I acted OK, people were happy.’

A shadowy girl about my age with short dark hair stands by the door. She wears a simple shift dress and has bare feet. She doesn’t seem like the others, just passing through. She glares at me accusingly, and I shift in my seat, feeling uncomfortable.

Stig sniffs and I turn my attention back to him. ‘I know how it feels to see a stranger in the mirror. After the accident everyone wanted me to be the Martha I was before, but I couldn’t.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. I just hid in my room.’

Stig sighs. ‘I wish I was like you.’

A huff of disbelief escapes me. ‘Why?’

His breath is so soft the candle barely flickers. ‘Because at least you were honest. I’m always lying and pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve been doing it so long I can’t stop. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be myself, and I hate it.’

I sit back in my seat, surprised by the anger in his voice.

We say nothing for a while, and for some reason my thoughts turn to the day they removed my bandages in hospital. I cried with joy when I saw Mum’s face, but she wasn’t smiling. A nurse put a mirror in my hand and I saw why. The left side of my head was bruised and swollen, the flesh a nasty shade of blue and yellow, like some kind of mouldy, squashed fruit. My left eye was cloudy white and stared upward in a weird direction, as if transfixed by something only it could see. A gash on my left cheek held together with black stitches completed my new look.