Shannon stood alone, unwilling or unable to move. Her clothes were clinging to her, the parquet floor slick with fruit punch and cider and lemonade, empty cups littered about her feet.

She wanted to die.

The adults seemed to have vanished. Even her father, who had been watching the scene unfold with a look of satisfaction, had slipped away, content with the havoc he’d wreaked.

Tears of mortification burned her eyes.

And then, from nowhere, a familiar figure was shielding her body from the plastic missiles and putting an arm around her shoulders, leading her away.

‘Let’s go,’ said Brinley.

The crowd had turned uglier, if that was possible, a knot of students clustered around the doorway to the lobby, barring their exit.

With a courage that surprised Shannon, Brinley pushed her way through, shoving into the bodies that blocked them, words spilling from between gritted teeth. ‘Get out of the way.’

Their escape was within touching distance. Shannon could see the lights of the village beyond the church hall exit sign, and the path that would take her home. She could not think beyond that. For now, all she wanted was the night air cooling her cheeks, and space to breathe and cry.

‘Going so soon?’ A voice drifted up from behind them. Danielle, arms folded across her chest, amusement in her voice.

‘Ignore her,’ said Brinley.

And Shannon intended to follow her friend’s advice, but as she pushed against the double doors, humiliated but not beaten, she could not stop herself from throwing a final, scornful glance over her shoulder.

A plastic cup of something warm and foul-smelling hit her in the face.

Danielle and the tall boy shrieked with mirth, slapping each other on the back. Their friends joined in, whooping in delight. Feral and animalistic, a hunting pack.

Shannon stumbled outside. She heard one of the ladies from the church shout at the youngsters to go back inside the hall, heard the beat of the music restarting. She gagged and spat repeatedly on the grass. It was everywhere, in her hair and her eyes and mouth. The stink of it filled her nostrils.

Urine.

The lowest point of her life.

A longing for the comforting presence of her sister filled her up. She loved Brinley too, but Sara knew what it was to be the daughter of a man like Richard Carter. She would run her a bath and put her clothes in the washing machine. Poke fun at her tormentors and soothe her with the balm of her words. She would make her feel better. Loved. Her younger sister would do anything for her, and that was a powerful kind of knowledge. It made her feel safe. Mothered. She and Sara were a family. They didn’t need anyone else.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father emerge from the church hall. He hurried over to them, concern on his face.