Mary was scanning the living room: two empty wine bottles, six empty beer cans, at least a dozen joint roaches and a purse, which she peeked inside. The driver’s licence belonged to a basic blonde called Fiona Bellwood. Derek McLaverty’s HQ was thriving, by the looks. Thousands of posters and flyers added to the t-shirts and books piled on the floor. He’d left his silver MacBook on the dining table. The kitchen had obviously fallen victim to late-night munchies. Mary’s prying was determined. She opened the door to the spare bedroom without asking. ‘Is Derek staying here?’ A photograph of the sons he allegedly loved but never bothered showing up for was on the bedside table. Hanging over a chair was his white t-shirt: THIS IS WHAT A MRA LOOKS LIKE. Mary peeked inside the large box on the floor. Inside were the original letters Macdowall wrote to his dead wife.

‘Hey, get out,’ Holly said.

‘Have you seen these?’ Underneath the fifty original handwritten letters that had been published was a large A4 envelope with CUT written on it. There were around a dozen letters inside the envelope, all of which had been scored through with red pen. ‘Some didn’t make it into the book, I see. Have you read them?’

Holly grabbed the letters from Mary and followed her as she stormed into the hall. ‘You have no respect. How dare you touch other people’s things. Do you realise how hard you’re making it for my dad? Get out. You are driving him to despair. Do not go in there.’

Too late, Mary had opened the bathroom door, where her son, Jack, was brushing his teeth.

‘Hi Mum.’

‘Jack? What…?’ She stared in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same.’

‘I’m required to visit, by law. How did this happen?’

‘Holly and I got friendly.’

‘She friended you?’

‘We had a drink after the book launch, got chatting on the Cuck page, met up at another event.’

‘You stay away from my son.’ Mary faced the girl.

‘You’re invading my personal space,’ said Holly.

Mary realised her nose was almost touching Holly’s and that she was breaking every rule she’d learned on the four-day conflict resolution course she did in 1983. She called on one of the skills she kind-of-remembered and turned her voice and tone down several notches, which in Mary’s opinion made her sound even more aggressive. ‘You hear me? You stay away from my son.’

‘Mum!’ Jack said. ‘Leave her alone. Why are you like blaming it all on her.’

Mary turned to Jack. ‘Are you really listening to this Cuck bullshit? I could tell you a thing or two about that McLaverty; you should beware.’

‘Could you, Mary?’ Holly said. ‘Or would you be breaching confidentiality again?’