‘How did it go?’

I shrug and head to the kitchen. I think my mother is under the control of witches and may try to kill me. The thought is so absurd it almost makes me want to laugh, and yet what’s the alternative? My mum is suffering from paranoid delusions and it must be hereditary as I’ve been seeing things too.

We sit at the table and she plates up the food with a smile. I watch her face for some sign of strangeness, but there’s nothing. Maybe to her it felt like she had simply lost her train of thought, but I know that look. I’ve seen the staring eyes and rigid expression before. If the shadows are still inside her, how long will it be before it happens again? How long until she attacks me?

My head throbs trying to make sense of things, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I want so much to have an ally in the world, someone to belong to. I’m tired of always having to move on to the next ‘family’ that isn’t mine. I want to get to know her and build some kind of relationship, but how can I if I don’t believe her?

Tom lowers his fork, his table manners exemplary for once, and asks something about the local wildlife. Listening to their conversation, I realise they’ve been talking for a while. ‘Wicked, hateful birds they are,’ says my mum. She starts to say something else about the cormorants on the island and anger rears up inside me, the emotion so sudden it seems to come from nowhere. My face flushes and I throw down my cutlery, my food half eaten.

She looks at me in surprise, then quickly turns her attention to Tom. ‘Would you like some more?’

He rubs his thighs, his shoulders doing a little wriggle. ‘I’d love some, thank you.’

While her back is turned, he looks at me questioningly and I smile to show I’m OK. But I’m not. Why am I so upset? It’s not like I know or care anything about cormorants. Aside from the fact the feeling makes no sense, I’ve always been good at controlling my emotions. I’ve had to be – kids with a temper don’t get to stay with the best foster families for long. Even when I stamped on Mr Neeson’s foot, I felt in control. I did it after months of self-restraint; if anything I should have done it sooner.

Tom stretches his arms. ‘That was delicious, thank you. I’ll do the washing-up.’ He stands up and reaches for my plate and my mother tuts at him.

‘No, you will not.’

He sits back down and for a moment no one moves or speaks. The sound of crashing waves fills the room, so loud it feels as if the sea is pounding against the walls outside, while the wind screams around the cottage. Why does it sound like women wailing? Suddenly the red light and swirling smoke is overwhelming and I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. My chair screeches against the floor as I stand up.