The slate grey day was heavy with snow, and Sal had been drinking steadily from midday; little sips during the Judge Judy marathon; sloppier swallows by Diagnosis Murder; and, by four, she was hungry. What happened to that bacon in the fridge?

‘You must have had it already,’ Jenny told her.

‘No. And that crusty bread, that’s gone too.’

‘There’s some soup left – have some of that.’

‘Soup’s not enough. I was looking forward to that bacon. Can you go to Tesco?’

Jenny looked irritably out of the window. ‘It’s snowing.’

‘I just really fancy some bacon,’ Sal said plaintively. ‘And we need more milk too. It’s not that bad – it’s more sleet than snow. Go on, Jen, be a love.’

Looking back, Jenny saw that that phrase ‘be a love’ was suspiciously affectionate. Sal was trying to appear oh-so-guileless, oh-so-sweet. At the time though, she didn’t notice. She was just irritated at being interrupted. She was working on a blog post. The theme was family dynamics, and making sure that the sick relative still felt valued and in control, despite being forced into an infantile state by their illness. Jenny had been…

experimenting with blended foods – butternut squash and apple are Mum’s favourite, and we have a laugh about the role reversal.

I just finished scraping the mush off her face,

She wrote:

and she started to laugh, and then I did too. That’s the thing, she’s still my mum, with her sense of absurdity and humour. She’s still here, thank god, and we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

She stopped typing, read the last few lines and smiled. It was a lovely, gentle smile.

‘Jen! What about this bacon then?’

Jenny’s gentle smile hardened into a grimace. She closed her eyes in weary irritation. ‘I’m not going out now. Not in this. Have some soup!’

Sal wavered towards the door. ‘All right then, I’ll go. I’m not scared of a bit of snow.’

‘What? No, you can’t go!’ Jenny stared at her non-disabled mother, imagining her trotting about Tesco on her very not-disabled legs.

‘Where’s my coat?’ Sal made a show of opening the cupboard. ‘Where’s my heavy coat…’

‘All right, all right, I’ll go.’ Jenny stood up, shoved Sal aside and got out her own coat. ‘But if I freeze to death out there, it’s on you. Bacon. That’s it, right?’

‘Bread too. And butter, and milk, and—’

‘I’m not getting loads of things,’ Jenny told her.

‘But we might be snowed in,’ Sal whined. ‘Get some frozen stuff, at least.’

‘Jesus,’ Jenny muttered.

‘Why’re you in such a bad mood?’ Sal asked.

‘I’m not. I just don’t want to go out in the snow,’ Jenny said evenly. ‘I’m busy. College work.’

‘Well, shouldn’t you go to college some time? You have to go every now and again, don’t you?’

‘It’s not that kind of college.’

‘I hear you on that computer all the time,’ Sal said.

‘Bacon, bread, milk… anything else?’ When Sal shook her head, all docility, Jenny left the house, and hunched into the driving snow, leaving the closed laptop on the kitchen table. Stupid. Stupid thing to do.

The house was quiet when she came back. The TV was off, and Sal, a fresh gin in a smeary glass by her elbow, was sitting in the dim kitchen, her pale face illuminated by the computer screen.

Jenny froze in the doorway, then slapped on the light. ‘What’re you doing?’ Sal didn’t answer. ‘What’re you doing?’ Jenny screeched, and lunged towards her, tugging at the laptop. ‘That’s my private college work—’

Sal held on hard. ‘“Adult nappies”,’ she read. Her voice a cracked falsetto. ‘“This has been one of the hardest things for Mum to deal with, and, frankly, for me too”.’

‘Mum, that – it’s— it’s just a story – it’s a creative writing thing, for— for college—’

‘“But it’s something you have to do, isn’t it? My mum is my best friend after all”.’ Sal went on in that sing-song way.

Jenny moved forward again. ‘Give it here.’

Again, Sal jerked back.

‘Oh, and look here, you’ve got a message – a comment: ‘“You’re so brave, not only to care so brilliantly for your mum, but also to write about it with such compassion”,’ Sal read.

‘Give it here,’ Jenny grabbed Sal’s arm, but again, with surprising strength, she resisted, and backed away towards the stairs, holding the laptop in front of her.

‘“… feeding Mum like a baby… Helping her out of the bath… closer than we’ve ever been–”.’

Jenny ran at her then, grabbed at the laptop, and this time Sal let it go. Her wondering expression was tinged with disgust. ‘College work. You must think I’m daft.’

‘It’s… It’s creative writing,’ Jenny managed.

‘It’s creative something,’ Sal said. ‘How long have you been doing this? Making out I’m sick? And why? Why?’

‘You are sick,’ Jenny muttered. The computer pinged. Another comment. StaceyC told her that she was amazing.

Sal moved back to the table, picked up her glass with one shaking hand.

Ping.

Take care of yourself Jay!

Ping.

Such respect for you lady.

It took a herculean effort for Jenny to shut the laptop and put it on the work surface behind her. Without it she felt… defenceless. Almost scared. Sal wasn’t looking at her. Everything was quiet, still.

‘I bought you bacon,’ Jenny said eventually. ‘And I got some of that ham you like too. And eggs and… and… burgers. You were right, it’s good to have some frozen things in. We’ve got beans, haven’t we? And—’

‘How long have you been telling people I’m a fucking vegetable?’ Sal’s voice shook with quiet anger.

‘I haven’t been saying that,’ Jenny was indignant. ‘It’s about being a carer and—’

Sal snorted. ‘You? Caring? That’s funny.’

‘I came back to care for you—’

‘I never wanted you to come back though, did I?’ She stared at Jenny. ‘I told you then I didn’t need you to move back. I was fine on my own; I was better on my own. But you came anyway… why? So you could make out you were this great carer? Jesus, Jen.’ She shook her head, and took another drink. ‘That’s sick, that is. Is that why you don’t let me out? You don’t want people to see that I’m all right? Is that why no one comes round?’

Jenny thought quickly. ‘You’re sicker than you think you are,’ she said. ‘They told me at the hospital. They said that you’d probably think you were fine, but that really you weren’t – you thinking you were better was actually part of the illness.’

Sal shook her head. ‘And that’s the best you can do, is it?’

‘I came back to look after you! Not many people would’ve done that, not for a mother like you!’ Jenny heard her own voice, ringing with falsehood, and suddenly she saw just how much trouble she was in, looking at Sal, so still, so disgusted, so capable of blowing this thing wide open. ‘And anyway, I didn’t use any real names,’ she said then. ‘It’s all anonymised.’

‘And that’s meant to make me feel better, is it?’

‘Well—’

‘And what about other people – your friend Freddie, does he think I’m ill? And Mrs Hurst – did she really let me go, or did you tell her I was too sick to work?’

‘Too sick to work…’ Jenny muttered. Shame bloomed red across her cheekbones. She closed her eyes to keep in the tears. She heard the splash of gin, the crack of ice, and when she opened her eyes, Sal was smiling. A strange smile. Sinister.

‘You’ve not changed much, have you?’ Sal said.

‘What d’you mean?’ Jenny asked guardedly.

‘I mean you were always one for making things up. You always were a good little actress. People always believed you. I believed you.’ The smile twisted. She took a long drink. ‘All that shit with Marc—’

‘Mum, don’t do this.’

Sal shook her head. ‘Had us all going about that, didn’t you? Even told Kathleen, didn’t you?’ Long gulp. Quick refill. ‘Made me move, lose everything. All so you could get your own room.’

Jenny closed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t about getting my own room. That’s not what it was about.’

Sal nodded. ‘All because of jealousy too. You wanted Marc and you couldn’t have him, so you split us up, got us here, and you got your own room, and me all to yourself. That’s what it was. And now your dream has come true, hasn’t it?’ She made a wide gesture. Gin slopped in a small arc.

‘It’s never been my dream to live with you, Mum, believe me,’ Jenny said scornfully.

‘But, I thought we were “closer than we’ve ever been”?’

‘How much have you had to drink anyway?’

Sal took a sloppy drink. ‘Thing is, you never told me exactly what it was Marc’d done, did you? Just hinted. Hedged around it.’ Sal smiled nastily. ‘You’ve always been clever like that.’

‘I didn’t make anything up,’ Jenny said quietly. The tears had gone but inside her shifted the old, cold panic. She thought of Cheryl: Strength Centre – go to your Strength Centre. ‘You want to know what he did? He put his fingers up me.’ The kitchen throbbed with silence. Sal kept steady, sceptical eyes on her. ‘He did that twice.’

‘And that’s it? Fingers?’ Sal said flatly.

‘It hurt. He wanted to hurt me. He was a… bad man, Mum. He was really bad and he was getting worse and—’

‘And again, why didn’t you tell me at the time if it hurt so much?’ Sal asked nastily.

‘He-he told me not to. I didn’t want to make you sad.’ She heard her voice, heard the thin pathetic pleading of a child in it, hated herself for it, hated her for hearing it.

‘Make your mind up,’ Sal sneered.

‘It’s true. And it might not seem like a lot, like abuse to you, but—’

‘Well now he’s dead, so he can’t defend himself, can he?’ Sal said. ‘Lucky, that.’

Jenny stiffened. ‘It’s the truth.’

‘Yeah. Like your “creative writing” is the truth. I’m at death’s door, and you’re Mother Teresa, that sort of truth. Jesus.’ Sal shook her head. ‘I always knew there was something wrong with you.’ She stared at Jenny. Her face cold. ‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it killed you.’ She got up from her chair. The unforgiving strip light showed the grey twinkling at her roots and cast skull-like shadows from her brows.

‘Where’re you going?’ Jenny whispered.

‘Out.’

‘It’s snowing. Mum, don’t be—’

‘You’re going to let me alone!’ Sal shouted. It was as if all the drinks in her system had formed a sudden hive of fury. ‘I’ve had enough of you… keeping me here. Shut away. You can fuck off!’ She turned messily, and tried to put on the nearest coat, Jenny’s, but put her arm through the wrong hole, cursed, turned it round, and did the same thing.

‘Sit down, you’re hammered,’ Jen said.

‘I’m not sitting down. I’m going out. I’m going to the pub. Without my walker or wheelchair, or whatever the fuck else you’ve been telling people I need. Where’s my shoes? What’ve you done with my shoes?’ She wandered towards the cupboard, located her own coat, wrapped her chiffon scarf with the roses on it around her neck, and then stumbled against the bannister on the way up the stairs, hit her head on the wall, bloodying her nose. ‘Shit!’

‘Mum.’ Sighing, Jenny got up, went to her. ‘Just sit down will you?’

‘No!’ Sal threw out one stiff arm. It knocked Jenny off balance, and her head hit the wall, in turn knocked the framed photo into splinters. ‘Look what you did there! Where’re my shoes?’

‘Mum, no, just sit down—’

‘Bugger it, I’ll just keep my slippers on,’ Sal muttered to herself, and lurched towards the back door, pulling the coat around her shoulders like a shawl. Then she plunged into the cascade of whirling snow, colliding briefly with the recycling box, swearing at it, and carrying on.

Jenny’s mind ran at full pelt. If she ran after Sal now, Mrs Mondesir might see them, Sal would talk, and everything would be over. On the other hand, if she allowed Sal to get to the pub, people would see that she wasn’t ill – pissed, but not ill. Freddie would find out through local gossip, and he’d be so disappointed. He’d never forgive her. Andreena wouldn’t want to be her second mum any more. And what about Kathleen? Jenny didn’t see much of her nowadays, but still, she needed to know that Kathleen approved of her, was proud of her. Cheryl? Christ… Cheryl could get her thrown off the course for this. Bye bye career and hello to a long life of temping. She’d lose her blog audience: that precious support network of all those people who loved her, admired her… Jenny opened her computer and scrolled: fifteen new comments.

When things get too much for me, I re-read Jay’s latest piece and it always, without fail, gives me courage. She has the kind of honesty that I can only dream about…

Please make sure you look after yourself, Jay.

You’re such a diamond! Never stop shining!

She turned the computer off. One tear plopped onto the keyboard, then another. God she’d miss these people. She’d miss this so much. The only person who wouldn’t turn on her was David. The only person she’d be left with was David. And he was very helpful with money; he was devoted to her but, she had to admit it… David was weird. He had been weird in school. You don’t forget someone like him in a hurry; he stabbed a kid with a compass, for God’s sake! And then there were the fires, all the rumours that went round about that. No. Hitching her wagon to David’s star would be… a last resort. David was someone you needed in your corner, but not the only one on your team. A little bit of David went a long, long way.

The harsh light of the kitchen shone on the dirty linoleum, the smeared glasses, the cheap bottle of gin, and she hated this place. She hated Sal. All those years ago, Jenny – a child – had stepped up, saved them both, got them here, given them a whole new life. And now, all these years later, Sal still didn’t appreciate it. Not only did she not appreciate it, she brought up the Marc thing again, calling her a liar. Even now, when the bastard was long dead, she didn’t dare go against him. What sort of a mother didn’t believe her own child? Called her own child a liar? What kind of a mother…

She went to the loo, stared at herself in the mirror until the welcome tears of self-pity started. Then she noticed the beginning of a bruise coming out on her chin from where Sal had flailed at her, and that intensified the tears. She looked just as bedraggled and put upon as she felt. Poor Jenny, all alone. Drunk Sal, bad Sal. Shittest Mum Ever.

Pull yourself together, Jen. Come on now, if you leave now you’ll be able to catch her. Even if she’s already in the pub, she’s drunk enough that she won’t be making sense. Whatever she might have said, no one would believe her. After all, you’re the one with the bruised face, and she’s the town drunk. There’s still time. You can still stop this, just… just find her, muzzle her. That’s all. That’s not too hard, is it, now – what? What was that? A noise from the garden… A fox, or a dog or something? But not quite that… and there it was again. A pained sound.

She stood on the toilet, opened the frosted window and peered out into the snow; she heard that same wail again in the hills, and something reddish flapped – The snow was coming down so fast it was hard to make out what it was.

‘Jen?’

How’d she end up there?

Thank Christ she’s there though, and not the pub… Lucky. Lucky.

With renewed energy, Jenny ran back downstairs, shoved on some shoes and opened the back door, stiff against the snow, ran out into the garden, through the gap in the fence, and into the whirling monochrome of the hills.

‘Mum?’ She said it softly. ‘Mum? You there?’ Just a little louder, and she heard in response a faint cry that she moved towards slowly, being careful not to trip. The rocks here were sharp, and if she fell she might not get up again.

‘Mum?’

‘Jen!’ The cry came again, weaker, quieter, even though Sal was closer now. ‘Jen! I’m here. Come… come and help me. Hurt my leg…’

Jenny stayed where she was. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

‘I fell down. My ankle. Hurt my leg. Jen, come and help me up!’

‘Why’re you out here? I thought you were going to the pub?’ Jen asked, almost conversationally. ‘You’ll miss last orders if you’re not careful.’

‘Don’t take the piss. I got… confused… the snow turned me round. Jenny, give me a hand, please? Jen!’

And Jenny looked up into the sky at the falling snow. It felt like she was racing through space, shooting past stars. It felt like she was the only person alive.

‘Jenny! Love, please!’

An image came into her mind – a long plank over a cliff, Jenny astride it on safe ground and Sal perched over the ravine, teetering. ‘You said some bad things about me,’ Jenny said after a pause. ‘Say sorry.’

‘You what?’ Sal’s pain-filled voice was filled with wonder. ‘What? I’m hurt, I can’t feel my leg now – come and help me!’

‘The stuff about Marc – you know it’s true. You always knew. Admit it and I’ll help you up.’

‘Sssorry! Sorry! Jen I—’

‘Tell me you always knew.’

‘I didn’t though, Jen, love, just get me up, will you?’

‘Admit that you always knew.’

In the dark, she could hear Sal trying to get up herself – that creak of pressure on fresh snow. Jen heard dragging steps, and a muffled fall, a little yell of pain, and a sob.

‘Jen! Where are you?’

‘You can’t tell anyone that you’re well either. The blog. You can’t talk about that to anyone, OK?’

‘There’s something wrong with you!’ Sal managed. It sounded like she was trying to heave herself up again. ‘There is. You’re not right!’ Jenny sighed, took a few steps back. ‘No! Jen, listen. I didn’t mean anything, love, I didn’t. I won’t tell anyone either. You’re right, and I’m wrong, and… just, please, help me up, OK?’

Jen left a pause. She could hear Sal’s exhausted gasps. Fear and pain mixed with gin. She sounded tired. She sounded too tired to shout any more. ‘I’ll have to go back for a torch,’ she said.

‘What? What you need a torch for? Just, help, will you?’

‘I’ll be a minute. Don’t go anywhere.’

‘Ha bloody ha,’ Sal muttered.

When she was halfway back to the house, Sal called once, just one cry, weak and kittenish. Jen waited for another few minutes, body tensed in the cold, waiting for a scream, but didn’t hear another sound. Then she walked back to the house as quickly as she dared. It was freezing out there, her feet were numb, even through leather boots… Sal in her thin coat and slippers would probably have frostbite by now. When she got back into the garden she noticed that her boot prints were already obscured by snow.

In the bright kitchen, she sat.

Time ticked…