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‘Oliver Kinnock.’

This medicine belongs to Tom’s father.

Mr Cockrun turns back to the school. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

Lizzie

Ihave bruises on my arms again. Small finger marks with brown centres and yellow edges.

Yet somehow, amid all this chaos, Tom has grown into a little boy who feels and thinks and has his own voice. I don’t know quite how it happened. It’s like he grew while we were trying to cope with everything. And now Tom’s school-aged, trying to make sense of the crazy world we’ve brought him into.

It’s a cool evening and my skin is goose-bumpy, but I refuse to wear a jumper.

The truth is, I want Olly to see the marks.

This is what victims do – beg for mercy.

Olly is on the red leather sofa, drunk and apathetic. He’s gone the other way this week, willingly taking his pain meds – too many, sometimes – and mixing them with alcohol. An empty blister pack of codeine is beside him, but there’s more in the cupboard. It wouldn’t do to run out.

I sit beside him. ‘I’m freezing,’ I say.

He turns, but doesn’t notice the bruises on my arm.

‘When I can get back on the slopes, everything will be better,’ he says, a tired old mantra I’ve heard for years now.

We’re silent for a moment, neither of us acknowledging the truth.

Olly will never get back on the slopes.

‘If you’d just take the meds how you’re supposed to take them—’

‘Don’t start that again, Lizzie. I’m not an addict, okay? The hospital gave me those painkillers to take whenever I want.’

‘Not whenever you want. Whenever you’re in pain.’

‘I’malwaysin pain.’

One of my nursing friends, Fatima, thinks Olly’s leg injury could be doing something to his brain. ‘Look up Fat Embolism Syndrome,’ she said. ‘It all fits. The paranoia. The agitation. He needs to see a specialist.’

But Olly is so suspicious of the medical profession now – missing appointments left, right and centre. I try so hard to make him go, but these days he just point blank refuses, flying into a rage if I push things.

And he is so furious about the injury. Furious enough to take his anger out on me. Accusing me of all sorts of things.

In his worst moments, Olly says it’s all my fault. He blames me for everything – his broken leg, stalled recovery, failed Olympics dream.

Everything.

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Who is it?’ Olly calls out.

Silence.

Then Stuart calls back, ‘Only me, mate. Um … just had a question about the lease. But it can wait. Sounds like you’re in the middle of something.’

We hear the tramp of footsteps going downstairs.

Stuart is a terrible liar.