‘Gemma was covered in blood. We have to call the police,’ Mira cried, charging around the house trying to find her phone while Barry and Deidre stood there staring at her.

‘Stop running around like a blue-arsed fly. What do you mean, she was covered in blood?’ Deidre barked.

‘Blood was on her clothes and her hands! Blood. Covered in blood, like in a horror film.’

‘I’d better go round there,’ Barry said, putting down his mug.

‘To check I’m not making it up?’

‘No, Mira, to check the girl is okay.’

‘Don’t you think I tried? She wouldn’t let me in! Don’t you understand? That’s why we need to call the police,’ Mira cried.

Deidre pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled.

‘What are you doing?’ Mira shouted.

‘Calling the police!’

‘I want to talk to PC Yorke. Where the bloody hell is my phone?’

Mira wanted to pull her own head off with frustration. Whirling around her mind were Rosie’s chilling screams: You can’t make me, I hate you, you can’t shut me in here, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

‘999 will send you to the same place, love,’ Deidre said, with the phone to her ear.

‘Yes, police, please... I want to report an incident at my sister’s neighbour’s house... We think a child is in danger... Immediate, yes, I suppose so... Mira? What’s her name?’

‘Rosie Bradley.’

‘Gemma Bradley is the mother and Rosie Bradley is the daughter... domestic abuse of some sort... There was lots of screaming from Rosie... Mira, what’s the other child’s name?’ she asked.

‘Noah.’

‘Noah... Well, the mother had blood all over her clothes and the girl... yes, Rosie... was screaming blue murder... Yes, hold on.... what number is her house?’

‘Four.’ Mira’s voice came out gruffly. Even to her own ear, she sounded like a different person. The line she was crossing had changed her already.

Each and every detail of what she had seen and heard she relived, making sure she could clearly justify their 999 call.

Gemma’s rough handling of Rosie out of the car, dragging her almost, was distressing in itself; Rosie’s possessions being hurled with such force out of the window; the loud crash of what sounded like a big object being thrown, which possibly hit something, or someone; the blood-curdling cry from Rosie, followed by the inappropriate music. Or did she hear the music before the scream? Was Gemma trying to drown out Rosie’s screams? Then the sudden quiet. The vision of Gemma, covered in blood, unaware or unashamed, had been appalling. The steely eyes, the haughty manner, the cold rebuttal. If she had nothing to hide, why ever would she not let her see Rosie?

There was nothing else for it. Anyone with a conscience would have to call the police. There was no time for doubt.

‘Number four, Virginia Close, Denton... Number three... Mira, M.I.R.A., Entwistle, E.N.T.W.I.S.T.L.E. GU21 5XR... Uh huh... Okay. Thank you,’ Deidre said, hanging up. ‘They’re sending out the next available unit,’ she told them.

Deidre sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Why did you have to use my name?’

‘You think that woman next door won’t know it’s you?’

‘You don’t have to stay, you know,’ Mira said, biting back much more.

‘I can’t leave you now,’ Deidre said. ‘Let’s play Gin Rummy.’ She pulled out a pack of cards from her handbag.

‘Terrific idea,’ Barry said.

Reluctantly, Mira sat down in front of the cards Deidre was dealing at the kitchen table and tried to focus on her hand.

The ticking of the clock was loud in her right ear. Every second was an hour.

While Deidre studied her cards, Mira stole glances at Barry, whose right eyebrow twitched. He studiously avoided looking at Mira. Since the call to the police, she had been unable to catch his eye. Clearly, he believed she had been wrong, Mira thought. As though it were a permanent state, Mira felt wrong in the face of what she believed to be right. She had always been wrong, about everything. Wrong. A wrong-un, as her mother had said once.

‘You’re a right wrong ’un, you are Mira Moose-face.’

Remembering that casual insult rushed Mira back to that sitting room, as though she was standing in front of her mother again. Mira recalled how her mother had been reclining on the sofa, licking her finger as she lazily turned the page of her tabloid, scolding her whilst flicking through the news. How repellent Mira had found her, in her pink leggings with the hole, and the thinning wires of hair around her forehead.

‘He was the one who did it, Mum!’ Mira had cried, defending herself.

‘Why did you have to go tell Deidre? Just when she’s happy with Craig, you’ve gone and upset her for no reason.’

‘But his hand was in my pants! He’s horrible. She should dump him for doing that!’

‘Just because you’re a jealous little minx?’

‘I’m not jealous of Deidre going out with that creep!’

Mira had held back the tears. Nobody would care what she did or where she went. She marched down the lane, armed with a cigarette she had plucked at home from the splay in the glass tumbler: a bunch of flowers with no heads. Swollen with more anger than she knew what to do with, she lit a cigarette for the first time. The heady hit from the nicotine calmed her. With each inhale, she sucked back the wild, clanging anger that threatened to overtake her. The sullen, sulky Mira returned. Back to normal. The barriers in place.

Mira still kept a packet of cigarettes on top of the bookshelf in the lounge, for moments just like these. Barry would turn a blind eye when she had the odd one after a stressful day, but she would be too self-conscious to smoke around Deidre.

Twenty-two minutes after the call to the police, there were flashing lights outside the window. A blue film tinged the outdoors. Their front gate, the hedges, the grass, the sky, the very air they breathed changed colour. The blue turned the familiar into the unknown.

Mira placed her fan of cards neatly down on the table and took a deep breath.

Barry looked directly at her over his cards but his expression was inscrutable.

‘Oh Lord, they’re here,’ Deidre said, leaping up with more energy than she had shown all day. She moved into the lounge to peer out of the window, which Mira knew would not give her a view of anything but the hedge.

If they wanted to see, they would have to go into their bedroom and look down over the hedge, but Mira didn’t want to see any more.

When the police cars’ lights switched off, the white sunshine blanched Mira’s confidence.