Things were worse for Dominic when he was a baby. Simone comforts herself with this often. At least Jasmine has a brother. At least Jasmine’s dad is around, alive. At least Jasmine gets cooked for, usually, something she can’t remember ever doing when Dominic was little. And at least this abandonment to her cot isn’t regular. Dominic used to get left for hours when he was that age, if she had a friend round who’d brought some charlie. Simone winces when she thinks of that. Yes, in many ways, Jasmine has it easy.

The crying continues. There is a wrenching, wretched sorrow to it.

“Come sit with me,” calls Terry.

The room is rowdy now and Terry is at the centre. Simone perches on one side of his chair, accepting the joint he passes her. Beneath the fog of that, and the din of music, and the chatter of the people, Jasmine’s sobs are softened. Simone forces herself, or allows herself, to focus on the crowd. There are nine or ten people in all, friends from the estate, and Terry is magnetic amongst them. He is holding court. Refuelling. Simone laughs at something he says. He kisses her smack on the cheek. Somebody passes her a beer. She feels herself relaxing.

Until suddenly, in her periphery, she catches sight of Dominic darting into the kitchen at the far end of the open plan living area. He doesn’t know that he has been seen and grabs a few slices of bread and a chunk of cheese. He is like a mouse, scurrying close to the floor. With a sharp knife he starts cutting the food into edible pieces, then Simone notices him spy the baked potatoes she cooked earlier. Body still lowered behind the counter, he reaches for one and hurriedly slices this too. Then all at once there is a clatter. Simone looks to Terry with apprehension, but he hasn’t clocked. The group have broken into song, and Terry’s voice rises at the top of it. Dominic peers silently over the counter and sees Simone watching him. He lifts his hand. There is a trail of blood running from his finger down his arm. Simone tries with her eyes to ask him if he’s okay, but he doesn’t respond. He slips a dirty tea towel off the counter and wraps it around the blood. Then he looks at her, waiting.

Terry’s hand is on her thigh. She doesn’t move. Instead, she nods at Dominic again. But he merely waits. Silently. Testingly? She starts to feel agitated. She nods again, more firmly. And again. Until finally, he nods back. “Jasmine,” she mouths to him now. Still he doesn’t answer. Still he waits. And she waits. But eventually, he does slip silently away. A few minutes later, the sound of Jasmine’s wailing ceases.

An hour after that, Simone hears a piercing scream. It sounds distinctly like Dominic. For a moment, her body tenses, air slicing her lungs like the knife sliced his finger, but then she realises that the shout hasn’t come from his room at all, or from Jasmine’s. She strains her ears through the music and when the noise comes again, she realises that the scream is not even within their flat, but coming from outside, and growing quieter as it moves away. Just somebody stupid, or drunk, like them, running in defiance down the civilised street.