‘Get lost or I’ll tell the police you’re giving my sister drugs,’ she cried.

‘Yes. Go ahead. Call them.’ He lifted up his T-shirt. Four deep whip marks were visible along his tanned back. ‘I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear how you attacked me.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a nutter.’ Then the smirk was back. ‘Flora knows where to find me. She can’t keep away. You’ll see.’

‘If you come back here my Uncle Leo will shoot you with his gun,’ Heather yelled.

He flicked his middle finger at her, then turned and trudged away. She watched his retreating back, angry at his words, yet mortified that she had lost control. Again.

Flora had seen him arrive. She was up in her bedroom listening to her favourite All About Eve album, sprawled on her window-seat and thinking of Dylan, their magical evening two nights ago. From her room she had a view of the Big Wheel’s flashing lights between the trees. She wanted to go to him, but knew she had to be careful. Uncle Leo had given her a stern talking-to about drugs, and warned her that if he ever found her in that state again he’d tell her mum and call the police about Dylan. She couldn’t risk it.

And then, as if her thoughts had somehow conjured him up, Dylan was there, in the garden, talking to Heather. Her heart swelled. He had come to see her. Oh, he was so beautiful, she couldn’t bear it. She touched the leaded-glass window with her palm, her eyes scanning the length of the garden and the accompanying fields for Uncle Leo. Was he out riding? In the caravan park with her mum? Or somewhere with that annoying girlfriend of his?

A yelp of pain made Flora’s eyes dart back to Dylan and her sister. She sat forwards, in shock, unable to believe her eyes. Heather was whipping Dylan, her face filled with hatred. Thwack, thwack, thwack, over and over again while he cowered like a poor animal in pain. No. What was she doing? She was hurting him. Stop! She banged on the glass but Heather kept up her relentless, torturous rhythm, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

She was going to kill Dylan. She had to stop it.

Flora ran from her room and down the stairs, almost tripping over her long skirt, and raced through the living room and out of the French windows, barefoot. But she was too late. Dylan was gone and Heather was standing alone, riding crop at her feet.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Flora screamed, grabbing Heather’s arms and shaking her violently. ‘I saw you! I saw you from my bedroom window.’

Heather hung her head, a patch of red had appeared on each cheek. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.’