Safely in the hall, Mary said: ‘So where did you put it?’

‘What?’

‘The child sex doll.’ She’d said doll not robot deliberately, to enrage and entrap him.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Jimmy said.

‘Where is Emily?’

‘Who?’

They stared each other out as she moved towards him. ‘Really?’ She wouldn’t have blinked first if she’d had time to wash off yesterday’s mascara. ‘Go and put these on, Jimmy.’ Mary pried one of his hands from the walker and placed the pyjama bottoms in it. ‘We’ll wait for you in the living room.’ By ‘we’, Mary meant her and the Zimmer, which she yanked from McKinley out of badness. Let the fucker fall over.

Mary parked the Zimmer beside McKinley’s armchair, and the wheels slid into a pair of grooves in the carpet. This was its place. The armchair, with extending leg and retractable back, was McKinley’s place. Mary scanned the room for signs of deviance, like Emily, and got madder each second. To look her in the eye and say: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She was too emotional, too angry. She shouldn’t be here alone; she should leave. She steadied herself by holding the rubber handles of Jimmy’s walker, one of which was coming loose. Mary found herself pulling at the loose handle, which came off easily. She looked inside the hollow metal tube. There was something there, but her fingers were too fat to get a grasp. She lifted the Zimmer and wriggled.

A pen drive.

She should ring the police and wait for them to arrive before confronting Jimmy. But she had to be at Lowfield for 10.00 or some kid would stay in jail another three weeks. She should ring the police and let them know, but that’s what she did when she found Emily. Look how that had turned out. Mary put the pen drive in her jeans pocket, replaced the rubber handle, and raced to the door.

‘I have to go, Jimmy.’ She was in her car in four seconds max.

Just Thursday, Mary said to herself as she started her car. Thursdays were always awful. Monday Social Worker always believed too strongly in the ability and energy of Thursday Social Worker, and it always ended in severe discontent. Just Thursday. Just Thursday. Just Thursday, Mary chanted, engine on, sweat dripping from her chin and ears. Her mobile beeped, and if she hadn’t looked at it, maybe that’s what today would’ve been: Just Thursday.