I was clearing up a murder scene, or so it seemed. I felt sullied as I picked up the pieces of glass and carefully placed them in the bin bag. Nothing could tidy away the unpleasant aftertaste of guilt. With a damp cloth, I gently wiped the blood from the prints of our smiling faces, and longed to go back to that day, when Rosie was three years old, and she had been difficult, yes, but less complicated. Had I been a better mother back then? Had I been a better person?

The doorbell rang. I hadn’t heard Peter arrive. I had been at the back of the house in Noah’s bedroom choosing an appropriate outfit for him for our visit next door. I had changed into clean clothes and the bloody shirt was already spinning around the washing machine.

I checked my watch, five past two. He had said he would be home at roughly two o’clock, give or take half an hour. Part of me had hoped he would get back in time to persuade me out of my visit next door. If I explained everything to Peter, I hoped he would think I was making something out of nothing, that our business was not Mira’s, that he would forbid me to carry out the humiliating task of persuading Mira that I was not a child abuser. Deep down, I would know I had to do it anyway, but his blind loyalty would bolster me.

With the dustbin bag full of glass and the broken-up frame, I opened the door, distractedly, ready to launch into the story of the past hour to Peter.

Two dark figures in hats blocked my passage. Time stopped. The bin bag was suspended in the air between them and me. The synthetic smell from the bag brought bile onto my tongue and its heaviness felt like it might snap my arm from its socket.

The figure on the right spoke. ‘Mrs Bradley?’

‘Yes? Sorry, I’m just putting this out,’ I said, panicking. I squeezed through them with the bin bag, in an attempt to be casual. I was so inappropriately casual that I probably looked unhinged. I imagined them making a note of it in their heads, building a picture, before the notebooks were brought out. A slither of glass poked through the bag and pierced my thigh as I carried it to the bin and I wanted to cry. I stared at the gates, willing Peter through them.

They allowed me to pass back across the threshold of my own home.

‘Hello, I’m PC Yorke and this is PC Connolly, we’ve had an incident reported to us from your neighbour about some screaming and we’re just here to check that everything’s in order.’

It felt like my brain had caved in. The muscles around my womb clenched my baby, instinctively preparing for the danger ahead. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to contain the panic. My first instinct was to tell them that they could not come in, that it was inconvenient, that I was outraged.

‘I really think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,’ I said, half-laughing, trying to convey how risible I thought them being here was. But I didn’t move to let them in. My brain’s messages to my body weren’t working.

‘Can we come in please?’ The officer said, more sternly this time. ‘We need to see your children to make sure they’re safe.’

‘They are absolutely safe. I’ll get them for you,’ I said, incredulous, standing aside to let them in. They followed me through the house to the kitchen. ‘Rosie! Noah! Come in here, please!’ I called out the back door, high-pitched, near hysterical.

They ran in, flushed, grinning from ear-to-ear, a little scruffy in their outfits contrived for Mira. They looked happy and well cared for, and I had a stab of pride.

‘This is Rosie,’ I said, noticing how both officers immediately clocked the bandage on her hand, ‘and this is Noah.’

The children stared up at them agog, and looked over to me for reassurance.

‘It’s okay, the officers are here to make sure everyone is safe after the accident with the picture.’

‘What’s that?’ Noah asked, pointing to the square black device in PC Connolly’s hand.

‘It’s an MDT. A Mobile Data Terminal. We write in it,’ PC Connolly said.

‘Can I see?’ Noah said.

‘Noah,’ I admonished.

‘It’s okay. Here.’

PC Yorke showed Noah the screen briefly, but his eyes were on the move, up and down the children’s bodies, around my house, scanning for something. Neither officer made eye contact with me for more than a second.

‘Hello,’ PC Connolly said. Her blonde bob was flicked under either side of her wide jaw. She bent down to Rosie. Her voice was gentle and relaxed. ‘What happened to your hand, Rosie?’

Rosie looked down at her hand and bit her lip, nervy and timid, she wouldn’t answer.

I leapt in to save her. ‘It is just a small cut under that big bandage! The picture frame fell off the wall and it shattered all over the floor, didn’t it Rosie?’

Rosie was wide-eyed at me, as though I had lied, which was true, I had lied, sort of, to protect her. The picture frame hadn’t just ‘fallen off the wall’. When do picture frames just fall off walls? It sounded like the domestic abuse cliché, ‘she just walked into a door’.

The female officer stood up and addressed me sternly. ‘Could you please remain silent. We need to hear from your daughter.’

Taken aback, I looked searchingly at PC Yorke, whose finger seemed to point briefly at PC Connolly as he brushed it under his nose awkwardly. His flat, grey face was unreadable, like a concrete wall.

‘Let’s hear from you, Rosie? Tell me what happened,’ PC Connolly said.

Rosie just stood there frozen to the spot, holding a strange faraway expression.

Both police officers glanced at one another, an all-knowing click of recognition giving away their obvious concern, and I wanted to smack them.

In spite of my fear of PC Connolly, I stepped in and wrapped my arms around Rosie. ‘Come on, darling, it’s okay,’ I said, coaxing her. ‘Go on. Tell them exactly what happened.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she said, looking up at me. Her chin was dimpling.

‘You have to, Rosie.’

‘Am I in trouble?’ she whispered, as though she and I were alone in the room.

‘No, no, poppet, you are absolutely not in trouble. Just tell them how you cut your hand. Nobody is going to be cross with you.’

‘I tell you what, why don’t you show me where it happened? It might be easier to explain,’ PC Connolly said, and she held her hand out to Rosie, who, much to my amazement released me, took it and led PC Connolly up the stairs. I could hear the beginning of what she said, before their voices were quiet.

I felt heady. My separation from her was a wrench I could hardly believe I was allowing. Everything about letting her walk upstairs with this stranger felt unnatural and wrong.

Noah pulled at my leg. ‘Why is that police going upstairs with Rosie, Mummy?’

I was just about to answer, when PC Yorke did it for me. ‘She’s just making sure everything is safe for you and your sister.’

PC Yorke’s portable radio let out a crackle of voices, distracting me from the angry retort that was building in my head. I was aggrieved by the imposition of these two officers in my home.

‘Sorry about that.’ He turned the volume down. ‘Right, I’ll need to take down a few details from you, if that’s okay?’

I felt angry prickles cross my chest, which was probably flashing red, highlighting my discomposure. I placed my hand there, feeling my skin’s heat throb into the pads of my fingertips.

‘Noah, do you want to play outside?’ I said.

Noah scampered off.

‘Is it okay if we sit down?’ I said.

His black uniform was thick and heavy with equipment around his belts, and his coat dwarfed my upholstered chair where he hung it. He shuffled far back from the table, as though giving himself space for the important task ahead. I pushed my torso tight into the opposite side of the table, prim, ready for a test. I had to adopt a practical approach, as I would in a boardroom meeting at work. I would answer his questions efficiently and without emotion. The facts would be gathered and they would leave us alone.

It was easy to do at first. He began by asking me for exact spellings of our names, our dates of birth, telephone numbers, the children’s school, and lastly, our doctor’s surgery. I didn’t tell him I was pregnant. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because it was none of his business. Perhaps because I didn’t want his sympathy. Perhaps because I wanted to protect my baby from his scrutiny.

‘So, now we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s talk about what happened,’ PC Yorke said. ‘We have established that Rosie has cut her hand, which you say doesn’t need any medical attention?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘We have reason to believe the incident with Rosie happened in her bedroom, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you with Rosie at the time?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘I was in the study with Noah.’

‘Could you please show me where that is?’ he said, standing up.

We stood in the book-lined room and my eye was drawn through the French windows to the stone patio, where I caught sight of a robin dart from the hydrangea bush to a limp, wilting leaf on the dead rose vine. It bounced for a second and flew off.

‘And what were you doing in here?’

‘I was listening to music with Noah.’ I pointed to the computer on the leather desk.

‘Were you aware that Rosie was screaming while you were listening to music?’

‘Yes. Well, yes.’

‘But you decided not to check on her?’

‘I’ve read that it’s best to ignore a child when they’re having a tantrum.’

His eyes flicked up from his device. Under his questioning stare, the advice I had read online shrivelled up as namby-pamby nonsense.

‘At what point did you know that the picture fell off the wall?’

‘After I heard the crash, and when her screaming sounded different.’

‘At what point did you decide to go upstairs?’

‘When I heard the crash.’

‘So, you heard the crash, and her screaming sounded different. When you say “sounded different”, can you describe the scream to me?’

‘It became really high-pitched, I suppose.’

‘And then what did you do when you heard this high-pitched scream?’

‘I ran straight upstairs to check on her.’

‘Could you call Noah in here, so I can talk to him please?’

‘Is that really necessary? He’s only six.’ Stay calm, stay calm, I said to myself, co-operate, I have nothing to hide.

‘I’m afraid it is important I talk to him. Could you get him please?’

I called Noah in from outside. ‘Jump up onto the swivel chair a minute, poppet. PC Yorke has a few questions for you too,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat, as though it was such a big treat to be interviewed by a police officer who suspected your mother might have intentionally harmed your big sister.

Noah sat twisting back and forth on the chair while I hovered in the corner, leaning into the bookshelf, fearing that my insignificant life was about to become as meaty as those behind the book spines.

PC Yorke crouched down to his level. ‘So, Noah, what were you doing in the study with your mummy today?’

‘Rosie was screaming like this WAH, WAH, WAH!’ Noah, the showman, said, obviously deciding to play up the comedy for his audience, as he had a habit of doing.

‘And when Rosie was going WAH, WAH, WAH, what was Mummy doing?’

‘We were dancing to Luuuuuther!’ He jumped off the chair and wiggled his bum.

I couldn’t help smiling, and I caught PC Yorke smiling too.

‘And then after you were dancing with Mummy, then what happened?’

‘Mummy was really, really cross, like this,’ he said, and he screwed up his face into his best angry-face grimace. ‘And then she went like this,’ he said, miming stomping out of the room and stroking his tummy, as I would do often, unconsciously connecting to my baby.

‘I think you should be on the stage when you grow-up, eh?’

‘Yeeeeeaaah!’ Noah cried, doing a tah-dah with his arms. I began to cringe slightly. It was little over the top, possibly a reflection of his anxiety.

‘Tell me, did you hear anything apart from Rosie screaming from upstairs?’

‘Only this, WAH, WAH, WAH!’ Noah screeched.

‘All right, Noah. Calm down, please,’ I said.

‘Okay,’ PC Yorke laughed. ‘Did you hear anything else?’

Noah shrugged. ‘Nope.’

‘So, where did Mummy go then after she walked out of here?’

‘Ummm. She went upstairs to Rosie’s bedroom.’

‘And what did you see there?’

‘I was a good boy.’ He became serious.

‘You were a good boy, were you?’

‘Yes, Mummy told me to stay down here and so I was good and I stayed here.’

‘You stayed down here, did you. And did you hear anything while you were down here, being a good boy?’

‘No.’ He shook his head slowly and looked up at me.

‘Good boy,’ PC Yorke replied, standing up again. ‘Okay, well done, Noah, thank you very much for answering all my questions.’

‘Can I watch telly, Mummy?’

‘Go outside for a bit. You can watch some later when Daddy’s home.’

I checked my watch. It was a quarter to three. Three-quarters of an hour late. Of all days. Of all bloody days. I wanted to scream out of a window, across the tree-tops to bring him home, like a bird’s call across a jungle.

PC Yorke tapped furiously into his device and walked out of the study, back down the corridor, towards the bottom of the stairs, and looked up, paused, tapped some more information, and back into the kitchen, where we sat down again. His command of my space was disconcerting. In another context, I imagined that it would be reassuring, say, if we’d been burgled, and he was on our side automatically.

‘So, tell me what happened upstairs, Mrs Bradley.’

Again, the look of sympathy. It put me instantly on edge. Did he know more than I did before he had heard my story?

‘I went straight into her bedroom and saw that Rosie was kneeling in the middle of all this broken glass and there was blood everywhere,’ I said, pressing my fingers to my mouth. I noticed my top lip was sweaty.

‘You saw blood. Where was the blood?’

Tap, tap, tap.

‘On the photographs and on the mount, and on her hands.’

‘What did you do when you saw this?’

‘I lifted her out of the room away from the glass and then I carried her to the bathroom to clean her up. That’s how I got covered in blood, but I hadn’t noticed it on my clothes until Mira saw me,’ I trailed off, trying to fight back the tears.

‘And you found a cut on Rosie?’

‘Yes, on her hand.’

‘How do you think she cut her hand?’

‘I don’t know, when it fell maybe?’

‘Was she hurt anywhere else?’

‘I found several small cuts over her shins and knees where she’d knelt on the glass.’

‘Where was the cut exactly on her hand?’

‘On her palm.’ I showed him on mine, and wished with all of my heart that the laceration had been mine.

‘The left hand, then?’

‘Err. Yes, left.’

‘And your husband? Where is he now?’

‘He’s on a bike ride,’ I answered, conjuring up the cheering image of Peter in his Lycra. ‘He should be home any minute.’

‘Were you aware that Rosie was throwing things out of her window?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’ Embarrassment fired up my cheeks. I was her mother, I should have known. I should know everything about her and I felt that I knew nothing.

I could hear Rosie and PC Connolly’s voices coming closer. My heart pounded.

When they came into the kitchen, I pushed out a smile, which slackened when I realised that PC Connolly was not smiling back. I had an urge to tear them apart.

I wanted Rosie to run towards me.

‘Everything okay?’

‘We had a very good chat, didn’t we Rosie?’ PC Connolly said.

‘Hi Mum,’ she said, barely looking in my direction. ‘Can I go outside with Noah?’

‘Of course.’ And off she ran.

PC Yorke read out a rough outline of what we had discussed, and PC Connolly nodded and drew her forefinger across one eyebrow as if smoothing it. She sat down next to PC Yorke.

‘Could we just go back a bit, Mrs Bradley? So, you say you cleared away the broken glass. Can you tell me where it is now?’

‘It’s all in that bin-bag I took out when you arrived.’

‘And your clothes? We understand they were bloody? With Rosie’s blood or your blood?’

‘Rosie’s. It’s in the washing machine.’

‘I see,’ she said, looking over at PC Yorke.

‘What? Would you need it as evidence or something?’ I laughed.

‘It helps us to build a picture of what happened.’

‘I’ve told you what happened.’

‘Yes. One more thing, Mrs Bradley, do you ever forcefully shut Rosie in her room?’

‘I’m not even going to answer that.’

‘It is important that you do, please.’

‘No, of course I don’t. Of course not. Anyway, there isn’t a lock. You saw her door, didn’t you?’

‘But do you ever try to trap her inside?’

‘How the hell would I do that?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I would never trap her inside her room. Sometimes I tell her to go to her room for time out.’ As I said it, a flash came to me, of me pulling at her door. Her wrist. The welt. The dress. The bag. It would be impossible to explain.

PC Connolly nodded at me.

I repeated it. ‘I would never trap Rosie in her bedroom.’ I wanted to add, Don’t you understand? I love her, and, I would do anything to take back this afternoon, but I knew the words would be lost on them.

‘Have you or anyone else in the family had any history of involvement with children’s social care?’

‘For goodness sake. No, of course not. Look, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of this,’ I said, shooting up from the table. ‘If that nosy old bag next door had a life, you wouldn’t even be here. It was a malicious call and it has absolutely no grounding whatsoever. She doesn’t have her own kids and she doesn’t seem to understand that kids scream when they’re young. If she did have them, she’d get it.’

There was a horrible silence after my rant. I wanted to push the defensive words back down my throat, pull myself together again. But it was too late. If Peter had been here, he would have told me off. He would say I was over-sensitive and too ready to fight back at the smallest criticism. But the police officers’ insinuations weren’t small, they were huge. They cut deep into my fears of what I was truly capable of in those desperate moments with Rosie. Their intrusive probing questions sent lightning strikes of panic through my whole being.

I took the J-cloth from the sink and rubbed a smear of butter from the edge of the table.

There were other questions, seemingly hundreds of them, until my mouth was parched and my head aching. Finally, PC Connolly pulled the plug.

‘Okay, Mrs Bradley. I think we have everything we need for now. What time will your husband be getting home?’

I sighed and pressed my fingertips into my forehead. ‘Any moment now.’

‘Okay, good. Okay, we’ll be in touch over the next couple of days,’ she said, pushing her small arms into her huge coat.

‘About what?’ I said, throwing the cloth in the sink.

‘Just to confirm we’ve made the visit and that everything seems in order,’ PC Connolly explained.

‘Oh good,’ I said, letting out a huge breath and a little nervous laugh.

I felt an overwhelming desire to hug her, relieved that they had not seen into my mind to witness my imaginary hand striking my child to stop the screaming. Instead they had seen the woman who would never, ever intentionally hurt Rosie, even in those desperate moments; they had seen the better part of my nature, where I had danced with Noah to Luther Vandross; they had decided that everything was in order.

My obvious relief elicited a small smile on PC Connolly’s face. ‘And we’ll be notifying Social Services about our visit.’

I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘Why ever would you need to tell Social Services?’

‘It’s standard procedure, Mrs Bradley.’

Pursing my lips, I answered with a clipped, uptight, ‘Right, okay,’ holding back a show of panic.

Once they had gone, I shook my head in disbelief, unsteady on my feet, unable to sit down. I blew out a few deep breaths, and then worried I might faint. The stress felt dangerous for the baby. I sat down with my head between my legs and stayed there for who knows how long.

‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Rosie said, standing right in front of me side by side with Noah.

‘Have the police gone now?’ Noah said, running around the kitchen shouting, ‘Nee-nor, nee-nor.’

‘Yes, they’ve gone. Calm down, Noah. I’ll make a pot of tea. Noah, you can watch telly now.’

‘Can I too?’ Rosie asked.

‘I just want a quick word.’

Rosie groaned.

Ignoring her, I filled the kettle and flicked it on. ‘So, what did PC Connolly ask you?’

‘Not much. Just about what happened and stuff.’ She picked at the bandage on her hand.

‘Is it still sore?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘So you told her about how it happened, yes?’ I was trying to sound light-hearted, to tease it out of her as though we were having a gossip about something.

She shrugged.

I placed the milky cup in front of her and inspected her face for something that would give me a hint about how she felt.

‘Are you okay? It was probably a bit scary talking to a real-life policeman, wasn’t it?’

She put her fingertip into the tea and started swirling it around and then licking it, goading me, knowing I hated her doing this. I resisted telling her off.

‘Police woman,’ she said.

I took in a deep breath and counted to ten in my head.

‘It didn’t worry you at all, talking to her?’

‘She was nice.’

‘Fine. Good. I just wanted to check you’re okay.’

‘Can I go watch telly now?’

After our ordeal, I decided that I might need to flop in front of the television too. I craved their bodies next to mine, secure and safe in my arms.

‘On one condition...’

‘What?’ Rosie sulked.

‘That you watch a Wildlife on Four with me.’

She beamed. ‘That’s a deal.’

---

We both snuggled up next to Noah and listened to the soothing cawing and buzzing of the hot savannah as we watched a leopard cub gently paw his mother’s face in play and affection. The cub’s mother licked him briefly, looked around her, and licked her baby again.

‘... possibly the injury that the cub has sustained in the attack might be fatal.’

‘Is he hurt, Mummy?’

‘I think he might be.’

‘Don’t worry. His mummy will look after him,’ Noah said confidently.

I kept my fingers crossed, hoping the poor little cub would get better.

There was a close-up of its bloody leg.

I gasped. ‘Maybe we should watch another show?’

‘No, no! I want to see if he’s okay.’

Knowing Rosie would worry all night if she didn’t find out what had happened to the cub, we continued watching.

The leopard mother tugged at the scruff of the cub’s neck, trying to drag him through the grass. It was clear the cub’s back legs were paralysed as they flopped lifelessly behind him. I looked at Rosie, whose face was slack with horror.

‘Poor cub,’ she murmured, close to tears.

‘Five hours later,’ flashed up on screen. I braced myself.

Sheltered under a bush, the leopard mother is tearing meat from a carcass. There is a close up shot of a severed cub paw.

‘Oh God,’ I said, fumbling around for the remote control, ‘LA LA LA!’ I cried, trying to shout over the narration while dodging in front of them and covering their eyes. The narrator continued in rueful, soft-spoken tones, ‘Perhaps in a mercy killing, knowing her cub would suffer, the mother eats her own young.’

‘Mummy, what’s happening?’ Rosie was recoiling from the screen with the cushion over her head.

Noah darted around me, ‘I want to see! I want to see!’

Abandoning the frantic search for the remote, I stood in front of the screen and switched it off by the mains. ‘Phew! Gosh! That was a bit traumatic, wasn’t it?’ I laughed, trying make light of it.

Rosie’s eyes were stripped with fear as she emerged from the blanket. ‘Did the little cub die?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ And the rest, I thought.

‘His mummy ATE HIM!’ Noah screamed gleefully.

Rosie shouted back at him and hit him, ‘Shut up, Noah! No, she didn’t. She would never ever do that.’

‘She HIT ME!’ he wailed, cradling his arm.

I couldn’t believe I had made this day worse, with the best of intentions, but I was relieved that we were in the television den at the back of the house where the noise was less likely to carry to Mira’s pricked ears. The one small window in the room faced the garage belonging to our other neighbour, the quiet widower Mr Elliot, who owned the bookshop on the high street.

‘Enough of that you two. No hitting, Rosie. Noah, of course she didn’t eat him,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Rosie.

Rosie smiled, ‘It’s okay Mummy. I know why she killed him. Because he was in pain and she knew the other animals would get him if she didn’t and then she ate him because she was hungry. It’s survival.’

‘That’s right. You’re a smart cookie, aren’t you?’

Our eye contact lingered, her blue eyes telling me she loved me, as mine told her the same, a mutual apology maybe.

And somehow that brief moment between us was enough to remind me of both the lightness and depth of our bond, the highs and lows, the tears and the laughter.

‘No more tantrums now, Rosie.’

‘Let’s not talk about it ever, ever, ever,’ Rosie cried burying her head in my tummy.

‘Okay, that’s a deal.’ I liked the idea that we could wipe bad things from our memories that easily.

After a day from hell, after the worst of us, we could still have the best. A private, impenetrable moment between mother and daughter. We had bounced back from an intense fight and I felt connected to her deeply.

---

I had been restless, knowing Peter would be home soon. When he finally arrived, he weaved into the kitchen, clearly drunk.

‘What’s going on in here then? Cooking me a curry, eh?’ he slurred.

I continued emptying all of the spice jars out of the larder cupboard, creating groups for each letter of the alphabet, and he stumbled as he took off his biking shoes. His eyelids were heavy. The smell of stale sweat mixed with the dried spices turned my stomach.

‘Where have you been?’

‘At Jim’s?’ he said. He washed his hands in the sink, losing balance as he pushed the soap pump.

‘You said you’d be home by two.’

‘I sent you a text.’

‘I don’t even know where my phone is right now.’

I shoved the allspice jar and the anise jar into the left-hand corner of the top rack.

‘Ooops,’ he sniggered. ‘Vics was there. She made Pimms. Our swansong to summer! We sat on the terrace wrapped in blankets. We missed you.’

‘I can’t believe you were two doors down all this time.’

How different our day could have been. I pictured Rosie running through the garden with Beth, lost in an imaginary game, whizzing back and forth through the hedges between her camp and Beth’s. And me, with my best friend, who would be jangling her bangles and laughing her head off as she poured more Pimms into my glass, telling me to seize the day, to relax and enjoy life as much as she did.

‘Sorry.’ He handed me the arrowroot jar as though it was a peace offering.

‘Did you happen to see a couple of police cars flying round the close today by any chance?’ I asked angrily.

‘Trouble in the ‘hood, was there?’ He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine.

I took it from him and put it back in the fridge. ‘I think you’d better have some coffee. You’re going to need to sober up for this.’

I handed him a coffee pod.

‘Sounds ominous,’ he said, taking it and dropping it three times before slotting it into the machine.

‘Those police cars were at our house.’

The noise of the coffee machine was so loud, it drowned out what I had said.

‘The police did what?’

‘The police cars were at our house. Mira called the police on us.’

Even before he had a sip of coffee, the lax, drunken muscles of his face tightened. He sat down on the stool at the island and shot back his espresso.

‘Say that again, Gemma.’

‘Mira called the police and two officers came round and basically accused me of abusing Rosie.’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘If only.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ he said, almost aggressively.

The spice jars slowly filled up the racks as I methodically took him through every detail, missing nothing out. Peter’s face became progressively graver.

At the end, I waited for him to react. I was expecting outrage and incredulity.

‘You should have changed your shirt,’ he said.

My mouth gaped open. ‘What?’

‘The blood would have made it look much worse.’

My hands hung suspended in the air in front of me, palms open, as I stared at him gormlessly almost, at a loss. ‘But, Peter, I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘I know that.’

‘A guilty person changes their bloody clothes,’ I said, disbelief catching my throat.

‘Is Rosie okay now?’

‘She clammed up completely when I tried to ask her about what she said to PC Connolly.’ My stomach lurched at the thought.

‘Probably because she’s still traumatised.’

‘Likewise.’ I rolled my eyes, feeling misunderstood and undervalued.

He shook his head back and forth before he responded. ‘The police are trained to make everyone feel like a criminal, aren’t they? It doesn’t mean they think you are.’

‘I promise you they were really quite reassuring by the end,’ I said, biting my lip, wondering why I couldn’t mention that Social Services were to be notified.

‘And they can’t change their minds?’

‘Jesus, Peter. You’re really freaking me out.’

I imagined the two officers chatting about me on their drive back to the station, analysing and reassessing their information; at their computers, tapping out a report for Social Services.

Peter jumped off the stool and wrapped his arms around me. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. What an ordeal.’

Over his shoulder I noticed the cumin pot was the wrong side of the cardamon seeds. I shrugged him off and switched the jars round. ‘If that Mira woman is watching us, what will she do next time Rosie has a tantrum?’

‘Rosie cannot have another tantrum,’ Peter stated firmly.

‘Right, yes, it’s that simple.’

A twitch of a smile appeared on Peter’s face. ‘A cream egg?’

‘Don’t even joke,’ I smiled, relieved he was coming round.

Both of us looked over at the kitchen window to Mira’s house and a nasty spread of hatred rolled through my body.

‘Why does Rosie put herself through it?’ Peter asked desperately. ‘It can’t be any fun for her.’

‘And it’s only ever directed at me.’

‘You’re her safe haven, I suppose.’

How ironic, I thought, when I was possibly the one person most likely to retaliate. Perhaps this was what she was aiming for, to push me and push me and push me, to check that my love was truly unconditional, to make sure I loved her enough to take the battering. It scared me to think that she needed to test me so radically, that she suspected a weakness in me.

Peter moved away and pulled his fingers across his scalp. When he turned around, there wasn’t a hint of the joke left in his expression. He looked as unsettled as I felt, and he opened his mouth long before he spoke.

‘Where does she get it from?’ he said under his breath, staring at me like a man about to be hit by a train.

I took a step back from him as though he was now capable of hitting me.

‘What difference does that make?’ I hissed back.

He turned away from me and bent over the kitchen work surface with his head in his hands.

I left him there, escaping to the study and pushing the door shut, leaning my forehead into it, the pressure on my skull causing a pleasant circle of pain.

Distraction became urgent. I sat at the computer. A slick of sweat cooled my face and my fingers trembled as I typed in the password for my work emails. I needed to silence the lingering implication on Peter’s lips.