‘Thanks so much, Cheryl. I was passing when the snow started, and my phone’s out of juice. Can I call a taxi? I didn’t interrupt anything though I hope?’

‘Not a thing,’ Cheryl told her. ‘Get warm.’

They were sitting in her living room, rather than in her office – a small extension adjacent to the kitchen. Jenny had never been here before. A log on the fire popped and crackled; the one-eyed cat, its wound gently sponged, luxuriated on the rug, briefly started, stared indignantly at the flames, and then settled down again.

‘She’s in a state, isn’t she?’ Jenny murmured.

‘You found her outside your old home?’ Cheryl passed her some biscuits.

‘Yes. A lady – the one who gave me the carrier – said that she’s been wandering around like this for weeks.’

‘And she didn’t take her in herself?’ Cheryl frowned.

‘I never thought about that.’ Jenny frowned. ‘She liked cats, that was obvious.’

‘But she saw this little thing every day and never tried to help her?’

‘Huh. No. Weird, isn’t it?’ Jenny gently stroked the cat’s back with one toe. Its purr was immediate, and grateful.

‘But quite common too. People don’t want to get involved,’ Cheryl intoned. ‘It’s interesting that you found this animal, uncared for and lonely, in the same place where you were uncared for and lonely.

‘And people saw her, but never helped. Just like they saw me and never helped.’

‘Exactly. Why did you go there today?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it might make things clearer in my mind, I suppose. Scene of the crime. That’s a stupid way of putting it, sorry.’ Jenny hunched forward. ‘I… I needed to get away.’

‘But you went somewhere that’s unpleasant? That holds bad memories?’

‘Well, maybe it’s a kind of self-punishment. Something... happened today and I lied to Freddie about it.’ She looked at Cheryl through her eyelashes. ‘You know how much I hate lying. To him, especially.’

‘What happened today?’

‘The police called.’ She stared at her hands, clasped, unclasped, clasped again. ‘They want to talk to me tomorrow.’

‘Why?’ Cheryl’s calm was slightly cracked.

‘Mum. Unexplained death. I suppose it’s what they have to do?’ Jenny looked at the fire, clasped her hands tighter. ‘I lied and told Freddie it was my auntie Kathleen on the phone. I didn’t want him to worry; he’s already worried enough about me, and he’s taken time off work and—’

‘All decisions he made himself.’

‘Well, yes. But I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want people to feel they have to sort everything out for me, you know? I should be able to do all of this myself. No one needs the… hassle of looking after me.’

Cheryl squinted. ‘Why can’t people love and support you? Why would that be a hassle for them?’ She too hunched forward. ‘The police. When are you going?’

‘Tomorrow morning. They’re sending a car.’ One tear plopped onto her knee. Then another. ‘I’m scared, Cheryl. What if they think I did anything?’

‘Why would they?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. But I’m scared of them. I was taught to be scared of the police. They were always coming round the house for Marc. I think that’s why I came back today, to the old house, to try to put all that fear in the past? But that didn’t work, did it? I’m still scared, and now I have a dying cat to deal with on top of it all.’ She tried to laugh.

‘What is frightening you the most about tomorrow?’

‘Talking about Mum. Telling them about the drinking, and… everything. It feels wrong. It feels disloyal to her.’

Cheryl nodded. ‘Your role is to be the protector; the gatekeeper of secrets.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’

‘Roles are given by a director though, aren’t they?’

‘What?’

‘Who gave you this role? Who trained you?’

‘Mum.’

Cheryl nodded. ‘And the production of your life hasn’t been well-structured so far, has it? The director was out of her depth, confused and, dare I say it, lazy.’ She held up one hand to ward off an assumed disagreement. ‘What I’m saying is that you don’t have to play the same role anymore. It’s a whole new production now. You don’t owe your mother that kind of allegiance any more.’

‘I should tell the truth?’ Jenny whispered.

‘You must,’ Cheryl replied. ‘The truth is the only thing that will set you free.’

It was late by the time Jenny got back to the house. The furtive stench of old cigarette smoke was rising beneath the bleach. She coaxed the cat out of the carrier. It put one cautious paw on the lemony linoleum, sniffed, took a turn about the room, its tail a question mark. Jenny opened a tin of tuna and watched it eat every last strand, and then took it upstairs with her. They lay together in her childhood bed, and all night it purred, a rusty rumble, while Jenny tried and failed to sleep.

The truth will set you free. It sounded simple. But she knew that truths are strangely subjective. A few months ago, she’d watched and half-understood a TED talk on quantum physics, the gist of which was that The Observer Creates Reality Simply by Observing. It had filled her with a strange comfort at the time – this idea that objectivity doesn’t truly exist. Now, though, it had the opposite effect: her truth – Sal, drunk, slipped, fell and died – was, after all, The Truth, but what if the police, merely by poring over the story, altered it to make it theirs? It was so simple to trust the police if they’d never let you down, but Jenny remembered how strangely immune to common sense they could be. How many times had they stood in Marc’s kitchen, glanced dispassionately at Sal’s bruised face, at Jenny’s obvious fear, and ignored it? The police only saw what they wanted to see.