Dad grunts and lays me down on the bed, propping my back up against the headboard. He turns to Celia. ‘What’s wrong with Zoe? Why’s she drooling and twitching like that? Why isn’t she talking?’

‘Probably shock. Looks like she was trying to kill herself. There’s a note on the bed.’

‘What’s that you’re putting in your bag?’ Dad rips the rucksack from her and pulls it open, peering inside. ‘A syringe? And what’s in this box?’ He reads from it, stumbling over the pronunciation: ‘Suxamethonium… What’s that?’ He pauses and then reads more from the label. ‘A depolarising neuromuscular blocker.’ He takes hold of Celia’s arm. ‘Did you inject this shit into my daughter?’

‘What? No, of course not. I told you, we came in and found her up on the chair like that.’

‘Oh yeah, and how did you get into her room? Got a key, have you?’

Celia edges towards the door. ‘Malcolm and I had better fetch Toby from the spa. He’s her husband; he needs to know what’s happening here.’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Dad strides over and blocks their exit. ‘You two are staying right where I can see you until the police arrive.’

Celia’s mouth drops open and then snaps shut like a trap.

My head swims and my eyes close. Their voices fade and everything goes quiet and dark.

Thirty-Five

NINE MONTHS LATER

Dad and Madeline sit at my new kitchen table unwrapping crockery from a cardboard box, setting each piece down while I work out which cupboards to put them in. I’m renting a little three-bedroom converted ground-floor flat just round the corner from Dad until I find a place to buy. There’s no hurry though; the flat is on a six-month rolling lease, so maybe we’ll stay here indefinitely. It’s a tiny little place with poky rooms and a square patch of garden, but it’s characterful, with an open fire in the lounge and a fruit-bearing apple tree in the garden. I think Dad’s nose was put out of joint when I told him we were moving, though.

‘I don’t know why you’re throwing your money away on rent when I’m rattling around in my place,’ Dad says, reading my mind; we’ve been very much on the same wavelength recently. ‘You should all just move in with me permanently. Tell her, Madeline.’

‘Don’t drag me into it,’ Madeline replies, unwrapping my blue china teapot.

Dad smooths out a sheet of newspaper and places it into an empty box on the floor. ‘We can get the kids to make firelighters with this newspaper later,’ he adds.

Madeline’s and my children are currently out in our shoebox garden playing Jenga, but I’m not sure how long that will keep them occupied.