As Holly tugged at the buckles of the rucksack, a small pile of trainers and shoes spilled out over the floor.

She paired them up and arranged them neatly on the bottom of the fusty-smelling old wardrobe.

Next, she took a deep breath and pulled the suitcase across. Layers of folded tops, cardigans, jeans and sweaters were revealed when she unzipped it and peeled back the canvas top.

She’d already dumped some of the clothing she’d brought with her in a bin bag out in Cora’s back yard. The clothes had been old, but that wasn’t the reason she’d discarded them. It had been because of the memories attached to them.

Day after dragging day, week after long week spent hidden away from the outside world at the clinic. The same pair of old black leggings and baggy grey sweater, worn like a second skin that had the power to protect her.

She bent down and began to unload the contents of her sparse wardrobe. Most of this stuff now bagged around her shoulders and bottom and gaped at the waist, but it hadn’t always been like that. She could remember a time when her hip bones were undetectable beneath a padding of fat.

Her fingers quivered slightly in nervous anticipation at what lay beneath the garments.

She took her time, hanging the two pairs of trousers over the heavy wooden coat hangers that Mrs Barrett had kindly left for her use.

She laid her worn knitwear more carefully than required in the chest of drawers lined with faded floral paper that perhaps had once been scented. Now all she could smell was the distinctive unpleasant odour of camphor.

As she removed the garments, one by one, the horror of what lay beneath began to reveal itself.

Lots of envelopes, in different colours, shapes and sizes. Some opened, with their rucked contents shoved hastily back in, but most unopened, as if they had just slid through the letter box that morning.

Holly hastily gathered them together in an untidy pile, purposely refusing to look at them directly but side-glancing just enough to shuffle them into something that resembled a vague order.

She took out the brown folder that she’d filled with paperwork before she left Manchester. Reaching for an empty plastic carrier bag that had held the sandwich and drink she had purchased when she’d alighted from the train, she crammed all the envelopes and paperwork inside and tied a knot in the top, then stuffed the bag unceremoniously under the bed.

Her breathing felt rapid and shallow now and her hands were shaking a little as she remembered hiding from debt collectors as they hammered on the door of her tiny flat.

She leaned on the narrow windowsill and pressed her face close to the glass, feeling the now welcome chill of moving air against her cheek.

All the houses here on the crescent had sizeable gardens, most of them long and narrow. Mrs Barrett’s seemed a little shorter than the others because of a dense cluster of mature bushes and trees at the bottom that gobbled up about a quarter of its length.

The gardens that flanked it were different, she noticed. The one on the right had a manicured lawn, a few bushes at the bottom and neat empty borders – no flowers. The one on the left featured a rather scruffy, patchy lawn. Its main purpose appeared to be to house a plastic slide and swing set and a paintbox-blue playhouse that was set on a patchwork of faded coloured slabs.

In fact, all the gardens were different from one another, each fitting a purpose for the family that lived there. There was a kind of order even to the shabbier yards. Holly supposed that without order, everything fell apart, and it was definitely time for her to impose some in her own life.

But she couldn’t bear to open those letters yet, nor look through all the paperwork, which she knew would be laden with legal threats. Some part of her realised that she couldn’t hide here forever, of course; it was unavoidable that judgement day would finally arrive.

For others, as well as herself.

By that time, she’d be fully prepared and ready to face the worst. She’d learned the hard way that it was far better to plough through life than to just let it happen to you.

---

It had been over a year after that last day at school that she’d set eyes on Markus again.

As she’d rushed to catch the bus to her secretarial course at college, a deep voice had called her name from across the road. The small queue of people in front of her had shuffled in anticipation, and she’d glanced the other way to see the bus approaching.

‘Holly!’

She’d stopped walking and turned to see who had called to her, and Markus had waved.

The rumble of the bus behind her grew louder, but she ignored it. She liked Markus and they were well overdue for a catch-up. She’d managed to get to know a couple of girls at college who were also on her course, but they were just acquaintances rather than friends.

She had waited until Markus crossed the road. He seemed so much taller and broader than when she’d last set eyes on him. He wore his floppy fringe swept back now, and she thought how it suited him.

He’d dodged the traffic and taken a final leap onto the pavement, folding her into his muscular arms.

He seemed so pleased to see her, she found it quite disarming.

‘It’s been too long, Holly.’ He was grinning. ‘I want to know all about the exciting life you have been leading since leaving school.’

‘Hmm.’ Holly had twisted one side of her mouth up. ‘Well, that should take all of about five seconds.’

‘Same old dry sense of humour.’ He’d squeezed her arm.

‘What about you?’ she’d ventured. ‘Have you made your first million yet? Found Mr Right?’

‘Ha! Let’s just say I’m well on my way to both.’ He’d glanced down the street towards the shops at the bottom. ‘Do you have time for a coffee before you go? I have an opportunity to tell you about… You never know, you might be interested. Unless you’re happy with your wonderful life now?’

‘Yeah, right,’ she’d muttered.

About to turn down his offer, she’d paused to think. She’d already missed the start of her first session at college, as the next bus wasn’t due for twenty minutes. It was only Health and Safety anyway. Boring old Miss Newton droning on about office rules.

‘I can spare an hour.’ She had shrugged. ‘But I’ll have to share your drink, ’cos I’ve got no cash on me.’

‘That’s no problem, consider it my treat.’ Markus had beamed, clearly delighted that she’d accepted his invitation.