All of this happened in a matter of seconds. Then there was a flash of reflective jacket, and the court officers were there, one holding Jake by the arms – he was sobbing, no resistance in him – and the other kneeling over Mike, on his radio for an ambulance. I remember there was blood on the tarmac and on Cassie’s shirt. I remember that I turned, frozen and disbelieving, and I looked down the hill at Karen. But the sun was in my eyes, and I couldn’t see her face.

1996

‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed. I’d hoped it was all some horrible misunderstanding, but no, there was my dad’s old Ford Focus outside the lodge, and I could already see the irate porter marching out to tell him you couldn’t park there.

Dad looked old and tired and my ears almost popped at the dissonance of seeing him there in his beige anorak, when just paces away, on the jewel-green lawn, my friends were drinking Pimm’s and lolling in the sun. ‘What? I’ve come to fetch you home.’

‘It was tomorrow, Dad! Not today!’

Anger creased his brow. ‘I’ve not got time tomorrow, I’ve an extra shift on.’ He managed the bar in a working men’s club, something that Callum and Mike always teased me about. Does your dad have ferrets down his trousers, Al? Does he sup ale and eat gravy? I smiled along but it wasn’t funny. It was my life.

‘But tonight’s the ball! I can’t come home now.’ My mind was racing ahead. I hadn’t packed my room up yet – it would take ages to peel all the posters down – maybe I could send him off with some of the bulkier stuff then get the coach back . . .

He turned off the engine and got out of the car. The porter had retreated after I waved him away apologetically. I stepped back as Dad reared up beside me, shock flashing through my head. He wouldn’t . . . not here . . . surely. Then his hand was gripping my upper arm, hurting the sunburned skin. ‘Stop this bloody nonsense. I’ve driven six bloody hours to pick you up, spoiled little bitch that you are, and you’re giving me this about a ball? Grow up, Alison. You’re back in the real world now. Real people have jobs, they don’t swan about in ball dresses.’

I pulled away, noticing the marks of his hand on my arm. ‘I’m not coming with you.’ My voice was one I hated, the one that always came out of my mouth when I spoke to him. Pinched and scared. Not Ali the Oxford student. Ali the frightened little girl.

‘You have to. Your mother needs you, she’s not well.’

‘Why, did you break her arm again?’