In broken, sobbing sentences, Honor had told them what she had just seen on Instagram. Photographs of her old home, her school, her picture splashed across social media. Even though it was breaking the injunction. Even though it was against the law. According to a news report she’d read on Twitter, the police had arrested three people for naming the family and publishing their address. The original posts had been removed, but the roots had spread and it was impossible to contain their insidious growth.

Worse still were the messages of abuse from school friends, who now knew whose daughter she was.

In the tiny shop which sold postcards and out-of-date crisps, Honor had thrust her phone at her mother. ‘This is all your fault,’ she had said. ‘I hate you and everything you’ve done.’ A dead-eyed stare. ‘Sa-ra.’ Each syllable resonated with a sing-song sarcasm.

Catherine had looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t call me that. My name’s Catherine now, and I’m still your mother.’

A mumble of words.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “Some mother you turned out to be.”’

‘Honor!’

She had taken a step towards her daughter, her tone streaked with hurt, but empathy too. The girl flinched, pressing herself into the racks of postcards. ‘What are you going to do, Sa-ra? Kill me?’

Catherine quelled an instinct to shake some humanity into her daughter. Her mockery stung but she understood it. Honor was behaving like a cornered animal, lashing out, and who could blame her?

‘Of course not,’ she had said.

‘Liar.’

Catherine, exhausted with being her daughter’s punch bag, had shot back, ‘You’re a liar too.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Honor, with the outraged hauteur of a pubescent girl.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Catherine had met her daughter’s gaze, a defiance in her own. ‘Why did you get a bus to Halstead on Monday morning and miss school?’

Honor had opened her mouth and shut it again, but she hadn’t denied it.

Much later, when the police officers had deposited bags of shopping and left with promises to return tomorrow, Catherine found herself staring out of the bedroom window.

Why shouldn’t she tell the truth? She had sacrificed everything for Shannon, but her sister had claimed Catherine’s freedom for herself, the memories of her childish heroism slipping through her fingers like sand. Catherine owed her sister nothing.

But who would believe her after all these years?

Catherine hung their clothes in the wardrobe and put her book on the bedside table. She watched a partridge make steady progress across the field, its plumage brown and unremarkable, like her.

She touched her hair, the dye she had used for years masking its natural blonde brightness. Would the world still turn if she stopped colouring it? Of course it would. The secret was out now.