Dominic says nothing. He keeps his head low.

Terry laughs again, this time louder. Then he leans over the counter and flicks his fingers sharply on Dominic’s forehead. One, swift, ping.

Is that it? At the silliness of this gesture, it is all Simone can do not to laugh herself. Is that it? She thinks so. Terry is beginning to return to the sofa. It’s over. It’s over.

Then, however, the washing machine beeps. And once again, Terry turns.

Now, he watches Dominic take out the wet clothes. He’s waiting for a mistake, Simone can feel it, it’s not over at all, he’s gunning for a fight. There’s a drying rack behind the door and Dominic’s meant to put a towel underneath it to catch drips. He remembers, thank God, he sets it up carefully, making sure to shake out each item to minimise creases, painstakingly ensuring there is breathing space between them; but suddenly, Terry rounds the kitchen counter and thuds him sharply in the small of his back.

“Where’re my things then?” Terry is demanding, shouting. “Are yours more important?”

Dominic has had the wind knocked out of him, and between strained breaths, Simone sees him looking frantically at the clothes on the rack. They are a mixture of his school shirts and Jasmine’s dresses and some underwear of her own. He has clearly sorted them by colour, just as she would. Terry’s jeans and other stuff are in the pile of dark items he has not yet washed.

“I was just starting with the light stuff,” Dominic says, inhaling sharply. “I’m doing yours now.”

Immediately he turns to the dark pile on the floor and loads it into the machine, but Terry has already begun rummaging in a drawer behind him. Dominic turns. In his hand, Terry has a pair of scissors, the kitchen sort, large, sharp. Instinctively, Dominic puts his arms in front of his face.

“Tel,” Simone intervenes quietly, but he shoos her away.

“Give me your clothes,” he instructs Dominic.

Confused, Dominic lowers his arms and hands him the wet shirts he has just hung.

“You’ve got to respect your elders,” Terry says, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta learn that, Dom. Don’t forget who pays for your clothes, who pays for everything, who sorts out everything round here.” He cuts through one shirt, and then the other. “Get the rest,” Terry tells him.

It takes a while for Dominic to understand, but Terry explains it for him. He marches Dominic into his bedroom and one by one slashes every item of clothing he owns.

It is three hours later that people start arriving. It’s not late, only around eight-thirty, but Dominic has been in his room since Terry left him there and the dinner Simone had been cooking never got served. She’s left it on top of the kitchen counter, but she doesn’t dare move from Terry, who is now all over her. Simone can hear Jasmine crying in her cot – she must be hungry, but Terry won’t like it if she sees to the baby instead of him. Simone’s only hope is that Dominic will go to her.