She cleans with an almost wild passion. It is hot, the heat wave of the last week unrelenting, and stickiness snakes over her in efforts to slow and dissuade; but she strips to a vest and shorts, pulls her hair into a tight ponytail, and carries on. Black bin bags bulge with rubbish, the windows are thrown open despite the breezeless air, the surfaces are scrubbed. It takes three rounds with the hoover to remove the greater part of the ash from the floor, and when she is done, she empties this bag along with the contents of the ashtrays straight into the outside bin. Pausing for a moment by the doorstep, she cannot help but notice the house next door with the newly painted railings. The neighbours’ boxes must all be unpacked by now, she supposes, their quiet, perfect life begun. Except of course for the noise invading their haven through her own wall, a thought that still fills Simone with acute shame, but also just a little triumph. She barely remembers the encounter they had the night before – she had been way past drunk by then – only that Terry had been livid with the man, riled by the ‘smug’ woman, and it had taken a number of drinks more to placate him. She wonders what Veronica is doing now – maybe getting herself dolled up for a party, or maybe, with a real job that lasts all day, giving a presentation in some high-powered meeting, or maybe just strolling somewhere, un-set-upon, unburdened, free.

Locked, herself, in daydream, Simone stares for a moment more at the neighbours’ front window. The blind is down, the shutters closed. Still, she watches the impassable blankness, and as she does so, flashes of other things shut to her, force their way into her mind: her father’s study door, then her parent’s front one; the car with which they used to drive Dominic away; the grief that sealed itself deep inside Noah; the maternal joy that came too late to save either of them.

She is going to send a letter to Lewa. Or an email. The thought comes to her abruptly, but she means it. Somebody on the old estate will have her address, though she doesn’t know what she will say. The truth, she supposes. That Dominic was, always, Noah’s. That Dominic is, still, hers. She will not ask the woman for anything material. She will not even ask for forgiveness. Only for her phone number, in case one day there is need again for a person to call. Everybody needs one number, one lifeline.

Lewa told Simone to stay in school. Lewa told her she was too young to give up. Lewa told her it was her turn.

Simone shakes her head. Guilt is not helpful. It laps around her, tempting, seducing, but she has seen already its paralysing results. Besides, it would be hard for her to feel worse about herself than she already does. It is all her fault and she knows this. She made her bed, as her parents would tell her, and did.