‘Do you want this closed or open?’

‘Closed, miss.’

‘All right. Get well soon.’

‘I’ll try.’

The door clacked shut. She listened for the noise of footsteps treading down the stairs. When she was sure she wouldn’t be disturbed, she dumped her extra jumper on the bed. The fragrance of the honey lemon was so strong and sharp it made her want to retch. It had the tang of borstal disinfectant. She opened up her window sash and threw the contents of the cup as far as she could make them go. After a few breaths of air, the trembling in her arms began to ease a bit.

She rummaged in the top drawer of her little cabinet and found her nail scissors. It took her a few tries to jimmy out the parcel from the suitcase, as it snagged on something deep within the lining, but eventually she had it in her hands. When it was stripped of all its string and shammy and put flat upon her desk, it looked stranger than she’d realized. Grubby at the edges. Damp. The flimsy seal of tape already peeling. An earth and iron smell. It wasn’t right. She put the scissor blades up to the tape, but something stopped her pushing.

D’you really think I’ve not gone down and done a recce, Joy? A nice big farmhouse they’ve got there. Access front and back. Huge master bedroom on the top floor, office on the ground. A fancy living room. No dog to bother you when you get close – it’s odd, that, for a house out in the sticks. They usually keep a dog, but all they’ve got is hens …

Fourteen days was all she’d had. Fourteen unspoiled days in Ockham with her brother, thinking that she’d finally stumbled into some good fortune. The supervising officer had been over to the house to check how they were settling in, running through his questions, making her aware of her responsibilities to herself, her brother and the Mayhoods. He had a briefcase full of forms and always wore the same grey suit. He’d warned her of the penalties for breaking her probation terms and rambled on at her like they were best of chums. ‘You’re lucky that you’ve got a stable base here,’ he had told her. ‘People who believe in you, who’ll help you get your life on track again.’ And it was true – those fourteen days, she’d been in clover.

But on her second Friday, she’d received her first wage packet. Quite the thrill, to open up that little envelope and see the cash inside – for doing what? Cooking a few meals and drawing a few wonky pictures? Not the easiest money of her life, but close. Next morning, after chores were done, she’d walked into the village with her brother. There’d been near enough two pounds inside her pocket and she’d had the notion that she’d squander some of it on things she’d craved the most in borstal: Player’s, Eagle comics and either chocolate or the sort of toffee that’d make the paper bag go see-through, maybe some cold bottles of that fizzy yellow pop. Charlie had been less enthusiastic, saying, ‘Don’t you think that you should save it? I was thinking I’d ask Mr Mayhood if he’d hold most of it back – you know, ten bob a week in hand for spending, and the rest kept in the bank for when I need it.’ But she’d batted that idea away: ‘Do what you like with yours. I’m going to live a bit.’