The chandelier in the hallway made everything seem bright, almost white. Sara’s teacher had said in an RE lesson that darkness cannot overcome the light. But Sara wished it would. The light meant there was nowhere to hide. It was clinical and harsh and unforgiving, exposing her weaknesses, the shaking of her hands, the fear she had not yet learned how to mask, as an adult might. The light was not a warm, friendly thing, but an enemy.

A scream, a rend in the thick curtain of silence of the house, erupted from upstairs.

Sara’s head jerked upwards. Mrs Carter lifted her own chin and smiled. ‘Let’s go up and join them, shall we?’

Dr Carter was waiting in her bedroom, leaning against her chest of drawers, his arms crossed. There was no sign of her sister.

‘Get in the shower. You stink. But cold water only.’

‘Where’s Shannon?’ He might not answer her but she was compelled to ask. Her ears strained for the sound of movement from her sister’s room, but it was quiet.

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. Shower. Go to bed. And don’t leave this room for the rest of the night.’

‘Can I just see her? Please, Richard. Why was she screaming?’ The words tumbled from her, fear for her sister emboldening her.

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

She nodded miserably and did as she was told, supervised by Mrs Carter, who ensured the temperature dial did not rise beyond a certain point and who gazed at her body with such disdain that Sara crossed her arms over her chest. All the towels had been removed, so she was forced to run naked from the shower to her bedroom, wet hair dripping down her back.

Her parents did not allow her to dress but insisted that she climb into bed without drying herself, making the sheets damp and cold. She cuddled Raggedy Ann. A cousin in America had given her the rag doll when she was three and, even now, it remained a source of comfort.

‘If we catch you out of your bedroom, there will be serious consequences for you both.’ Dr Carter spoke in the same even tone that he always did.

Her father was almost at the door when he turned and walked back to the bed, yanking the rag doll from his daughter’s hands. She resisted, holding on to it for as long as she could, but her father was much stronger.

‘You’re too old for this now,’ he said. ‘These are for babies.’

With that, Sara was left alone in the dark, tears soaking her pillow. But underneath the sorrow, she felt relief – an overwhelming surge of it – that her parents had left her alone for now.

And anger, as fierce and destructive as fire.

38

Sunday, 20 April 1997

A thud and a muffled swear word.