“Hello, Margo. I’m Jack Hammond, the editor of this illustrious newspaper and the one who holds the purse strings. Strings to a purse that is very light, if you get my meaning.”

Margo sensed horse trading when she heard it.

“I can always take it elsewhere. The nationals have deep pockets.” She was bluffing, didn’t even know what the reporter might have gleaned from the scribbles she’d seen.

“We can offer you one thousand pounds, that’s all.”

Margo couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. All that money for some old notebook? She’d struck gold. “It’s worth more than that,” she responded quickly, hoping the surprise on her face would be interpreted as outrage at an insulting offer.

The editor looked at her with pity. “It’s all we’re going to offer. You do realise this notebook is the property of the Courier? Instead of offering you money for it, I should by rights be calling the police to let them know you are in possession of stolen property.”

“You’re bluffing!”

He stood up, extracting his portly frame from the seat with some difficulty. “Good day.”

“No, I’ll take it!” Margo almost shouted, worried that she’d be left with nothing.

The editor didn’t bother turning around. “Pay her cash and bring me June’s notebook.”

Margo left the Courier’s offices with more crisp notes filling her purse. Her feet felt as if they were attached to springs as she entered the supermarket, heading for the wine section to celebrate the change in her fortunes. A glance at the Courier’s front page brought her back to earth with a bump – Child Abuse at the Orphanage – screamed the headlines, and underneath in smaller writing – alleges Margo MacDonald in a Courier exclusive.

She added the newspaper to her shopping bag, folding it so that the front cover was obscured from view. “Shit!” The expletive hissed from between her tightly clenched jaw.

When the reporter had listened to her story on Monday it had felt so good just to have someone to talk to, someone who nodded at the right times, made sympathetic noises. For the first time in her life Margo had imagined that someone actually gave a damn about her. Now she’d seen the headlines the truth hit her as hard as one of Oscar’s blows. She was just being used and abused again. Worse than that, her story was plastered across the newspaper and would be read by everyone in the town, everyone that knew her now had another window into her miserable life.

As she stood on the pavement she was acutely aware of passers-by looking at her, taking turns to point her out. Margo could imagine the conversations taking place around her in hushed tones: ‘That’s Oscar’s whore, that’s the woman who’s made all those dreadful allegations about poor Reverend Simon McLean, child abuse… lies… bitch… whore.’