Why? Simone has no idea: why she is questioning him; why her mind is racing to crazy ideas – that he might not be with Jasmine, that he might not have gone home; why she has never worried about this before. Yet even the thought of returning home herself, makes her lungs constrict.

Dominic at least is at school, away, but all morning at the gym, Simone imagines Jasmine screaming, wet and hungry in her cot, or worse, wondering alone around the flat where there are things she shouldn’t touch, or worse still, making too loud a noise at a moment inconvenient to her father. Is this why her daughter has learnt to freeze, to become invisible? As she works, she finds herself touching her fingers to her throat, where a thick layer of make-up masks deep red imprints in her flesh.

It is well past lunchtime when she finally makes it back down the canal, up the steps just beyond the Nash arch, and to the flat where she both fears and hopes that Terry is waiting.

As soon as she enters, she knows that he is not there. The TV is on but the air is otherwise unsullied by friction. Frantically she glances around for Jasmine and with a surge of relief spots her quickly, in one piece, on the sofa. She is hypnotised in front of some cartoon, and next to her, arm around her shoulders, is Dominic. He wears his school uniform, but he has clearly not been to school. He catches her eye, and in an instant Simone understands what has happened – Terry left, so Dominic couldn’t. With a deep, tear-tinged exhalation of breath, gratefulness sweeps through her. Thank goodness for Dominic. Thank goodness her son was there for his sister. Thank goodness Jasmine has not spent the day alone. With the same breath, however, there is guilt too, for Dominic has been sacrificed once again. By her. With a nod of her head, Simone tries to convey the shame she feels about this, the remorse, and the thanks. She wants to go to him and engulf him in a hug. But Dominic shakes his head at her, contempt spilling from his eyes like years of untended teardrops.

Simone’s arms ache with emptiness. For a while she busies them in the kitchen, then delivers a snack of toast with jam to each of her children, Dominic accepting his begrudgingly, Jasmine pulling Simone tight towards her until their cheeks are locked and jam somehow makes its way into Simone’s hair. Untangling herself from her daughter to remove it, she notices the pile of pizza boxes next to her children on the sofa, prompting Simone to turn her attention to the other remnants of the night before. The flat is as she left it: the rank stench of stale beer and festering leftovers, bottles and glasses everywhere, overflowing bins, a grimy floor, the lingering smell of smoke that is not pure tobacco. Simone rarely cleans the place properly – there seems little point when each day ash renews its claim on the carpets – and often she stops noticing the grime of it all, but for some reason she feels now that if she can just rid the rooms of the dirt, the ingrained filth, then perhaps when Terry returns he will feel cleansed too, unburdened, washed free of fury. And she will be washed free of doubt.