I lean over him. His breathing is deep and even. I put my arms around him and pinch his arm, softly rubbing with my fingers, wincing as I bruise him. Then I move to his bony chest and each side of his waist. He stirs and my heart races. I fear he is about to wake. But he rolls onto his side, mouth still open, and continues to sleep. Feeling sick at what I have done, I creep away, on tiptoe, too nervous to breathe.

Step by step across the landing into Harry’s Thomas the Tank Engine utopia, styled by Caprice Jackson. This room is more like it. Slow motion across the bedroom. Harry is lying on his stomach. I lean over him and rub and press his back, feeling more and more nauseous, until the discolouration begins. He doesn’t stir, younger and lighter than his brother, thank goodness the hefty dose of cough mixture I have given him has really laid him out.

Back across the landing. Back in my boudoir, I rip off my clothes and pull away the black tights that were squashing my nose. I throw myself into bed and shut my eyes tightly. But now, even though my task is complete, I still can’t sleep. I feel so bereft after bruising my grandsons. Then I remember your coldness, Saffron, and I know I have done the right thing.

4 a.m. Moonlight streams around the curtain edges.

5 a.m. An owl hoots. And I tell myself yet again that getting rid of you will be beneficial to my grandsons in the long run.

5.30 a.m. The shower pump thuds.

6 a.m. The front door opens and closes as you leave, Saffron.

7 a.m. Hayley’s alarm tinkles in the distance. This is it. My masterplan begins.

95

Hayley

The alarm shrills into my bedroom. Head pounding, mouth dry, I reach across to switch it off. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late with Jono doing shots. I drag myself out of bed, feeling sick. Flinging a tracksuit on, walking towards the boys’ bedrooms, holding my stomach.

Ben’s room first. As I lay his school uniform on his chair, my nausea increases. He slips out of bed and pulls off his pyjama top. I inhale sharply. Bruises. On his chest. On his waist.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ I ask, swallowing to push back my nausea, moving closer to inspect him.

‘What do you mean?’ he asks as he picks up his school shirt.

Bruises on his arms too. They weren’t there when I took him swimming yesterday, after school.

‘Who put you to bed?’ I ask.

‘Mummy.’

I force a smile. ‘Breakfast will be ready soon. See you downstairs.’

I go to Harry’s room next. He is sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. I lay out his uniform and watch carefully as he peels his pyjamas off. Multiple bruises on his back.