He wiped the crumbs from around her face. To her non-surprise, it had been honey on toast again. He placed the tissue on the floor and walked over towards the slop bucket. He lifted it and left the room. She listened as he walked to the other side of the barn, poured the contents down the loo and pulled the old chain. She dragged the blanket towards her chin, covering the patch on her nightie where her breasts had leaked. The sour smell filled her nostrils.

In the background, she heard the television. The Christmas Coca Cola advert came on. It was almost Christmas, again. Another Christmas would pass without seeing her children. Her eyes began to well up as she remembered past Christmases. She remembered the excitement Luke and she shared when they placed the presents under the tree in the middle of the night, their happiness when they saw their children’s surprised expressions. She wondered if they’d be writing their letters to Father Christmas. Then the television was switched off and the sound of Christmas disappeared.

‘Right. Shower time,’ he said, dropping the bucket back at the foot of her bed. ‘You need to get clean.’ She continued to look beyond him, knowing it was time to remove her nightie so that he could watch her shower. Her legs trembled as she stood. He looked down at the sheets. ‘You’ve dirtied them. How could you? I only gave you new bedding the other day,’ he said, as he rubbed his head and began to pace. She glanced back and noticed the blood-soaked sheet that she’d been lying on. ‘For heaven’s sake. You dirty bitch.’ He stared into her eyes and held his clenched fist in front of her face.

‘I’m sorry.’ She began to weep and tremble. ‘It’s because I had our baby. It’s normal, really it is,’ she said, pleading with him. He opened his fist and moved his hand from in front of her face.

‘You should’ve said something. You’ve just been lying there in filth, all this time. This is not the Debbie I know,’ he muttered as he continued pacing. She stepped back as he turned towards her. ‘I understand. I know what you’re going through and I’m trying to support you wholeheartedly.’ He leaned in towards her. She closed her eyes as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘But it can never happen again.’ He drew back and slapped her across the face. She wanted to flinch, she wanted to yell, she wanted to cry – but there was no point.

‘I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I’ll say something next time. I promise,’ she said, holding back the sobs that were sticking in her throat. She placed her hand over her cheek and tried to soothe the burning pain. He broke his stare and hurried towards the chain ring. He unlocked it and linked it to a carabiner that was looped around his belt.

‘Leave your dirty clothes there,’ he said as he gripped the padlock.

She pulled her nightie over her head and dropped it to the floor, revealing everything.

‘You need to cut down. Your belly is still swollen,’ he said as he prodded at her stomach. She flinched and let out a small groan.

She remembered when she’d given birth to Max. It had taken her the best part of ten months to even fit into her larger pre-Max clothes. She’d been so disappointed that she hadn’t been able to lose that last half a stone, almost to the point of obsession. She’d have done anything to be rid of it, anything. She remembered the photo that Luke had taken of them and their two little ones, soon after giving birth to their son. She’d given him a hard time when he’d framed it and put it on display in their family home. Now she knew why Luke had wanted that photo. He loved her and he hadn’t cared about her chubby arms and tummy. That photo represented the love he had for her and their family. She remembered how disappointed he’d been when she said she thought the photo was hideous and that he should get rid of it because she looked like a whale. He’d refused, of course, reassuring her that he loved all of her, even the chubby bits.

She looked down at her postpartum belly. She still looked slightly pregnant, but things were different from when she’d given birth to Heidi and Max. Now, her belly was swollen but her legs were like sticks. Every action took effort. Using her arms in any way that put strain on them made them feel like they would snap. Back then she’d been dissatisfied with her weight, but now she’d do anything to be back at home, worrying about how she was going to shift her measly half a stone. Dark pigment ran in a line from her belly button to her groin, which would surely fade away soon, along with the post-birth swelling and any memories of her little girl.

He began to walk, dragging her chain as he did so. She followed until they reached the small shower room. She stared at the old toilet with its cistern up high on the wall. She remembered visiting one of her mother’s old relatives as a child; she’d had a similar toilet in a lean-to room, off the kitchen. He turned the shower on and it trickled. The last time she’d had a shower, it had taken her several hours to get warm again.

‘In you go. Squeaky clean, you’ll be.’ He smiled and gave her a nudge. She stepped in and shivered as the icy water hit her body. She rubbed the soap over her goose-bumped skin and allowed the water to soak her hair. As on previous occasions, she’d use the soap to wash her hair too. Brownish-red water gathered in the tray below, reminding her that she was still bleeding. She turned and saw that he was watching her. ‘Don’t forget the underarms,’ he said, staring at her breasts. She hugged herself and he looked away. Under the scummy water, she noticed that her hair was blocking the plughole. She remembered losing a fair bit of hair in the past after giving birth. Perfectly normal, her midwife had said to her. She stared at the hair tangled in her wet fingers. Since when had she started going grey?

Through chattering teeth, she gasped for air. ‘I need to get out now,’ she said as she stepped aside.

‘Turn off the shower,’ he said.

She did as she was told. He went to grab a towel off the rail. The door below banged and the dog barked. ‘Shut up, Rosie,’ he yelled. The door banged again. She watched nervously as he ran his fingers through his hair, looking agitated.

‘We’ve run out of bread,’ a frail voice shouted.

He unlocked the chain and transferred it to the towel rail, securing it with the padlock. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. She’s fragile, so don’t scare her. I’ll never forgive you if you scare Mother.’ She looked away as he left the room. Shaking, she began to pull at the rail. It was embedded into some old damp plasterboard, which moved a little more with each tug.

‘Rosie, get out,’ he shouted from the bottom of the steps. A gust of cold air bellowed upwards into the tiny bathroom. The dog ignored him and ran up to her. It began to bark. She pulled at the rail again. One of the screws loosened. He burst in and grabbed the dog, directing it out of the room. ‘Bad girl, Rosie. Get out,’ he said as he kicked the tiny black spaniel up the rear. The little dog yelped and ran back down the stairs.

‘I’m going to the shop,’ the old woman yelled.

‘Mother, no. Wait.’ Her heart pounded as she stood in front of him, naked and shivering. She noticed a small pile of plaster dust on the floor, beneath where she’d been tugging at the rail.

‘Come on, Rosie, we can go to the shop together,’ the old woman called to the yelping dog.

‘Hang on!’ he shouted, running back down the stairs.

This was her chance. She yanked the towel rail and watched as a chink of plaster came away. Nearly there. When she yanked again, one side of the rail dropped. She pulled the whole thing away from the wall and grabbed the loose chain. Downstairs, she could hear him arguing with his mother while trying to round up the dog. The dog barked and yelped. She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her shivering body. He’d be back any moment. She needed to take him by surprise and get out. She needed something to attack him with. She slid around on the floor until she managed to dry her feet on a small mat.

Running to the kitchenette, she grabbed the old metal kettle. With trembling hands, she opened a couple of drawers. Maybe there was a knife or fork. The drawers were empty.

She heard the door slam shut. He was coming back. The dog and the old lady had gone. It was just him and her. She waited at the top of the steps, her back to the wall. As he neared she held the kettle high. He stopped halfway up, not making a sound. She held her breath. The kettle quivered in her weak arms. She shuffled away from the wall, scared she would tap it. He took another step and stopped. The water falling from her hair threatened to expose her whereabouts. Drip, drip, drip.

‘Come out, Debbie,’ he called.

Her heart hammered as the sobs burst out from her chest. The chain rattled as she ran from behind the door straight into him on the stairs. She whacked him with the kettle. They both tumbled in a heap down the steps, landing on the oily floor below. She pushed up on her hands and grabbed at the towel around her chest. As he went to stand, she kicked him in the stomach and pushed him hard. She screamed as she scurried past him and darted towards the door. ‘Help!’ she called, knowing that the old woman couldn’t be too far away. She’d surprised him with her attack. All she had were moments in which to get away. ‘Help!’ she cried again, as she reached for the main door.