Ethan stared straight ahead. ‘Delilah,’ he said.

‘Delilah. OK. Delilah?’

‘It was Ethan,’ she said. She was crying. ‘I promise.’

‘Well, then. Alexandra. It looks like you have the deciding vote.’

When I’ve thought of this moment, in jet-lagged hours of the night, or on a lonely winter Sunday, as it’s going dark, the old squid twitches awake, and extends into my limbs, up to the throat and down through the womb. Shame.

‘It was Delilah,’ I said. ‘Delilah broke it.’

As soon as the words were said, Father seized her arm.

‘The rest of you,’ Father said, ‘into the car.’

He knelt amongst the crisp packets and the gravel, and bent Delilah over his knee. He pulled down her tiny purple trousers and her underpants, and smacked her five times, as hard as he could. By the time she could stand up, she was composed. She wiped the wet hair from her eyes and adjusted her clothes, and she gazed at me between the rivulets on the car window, to the warmer, lighter place where the rest of us were waiting. I remember the expression on her face, and I contemplate Delilah, wherever she may be – in another bed, or in the middle of her own Sunday afternoon – and I’m quite sure that she thinks of this moment, too.

‘Come on in,’ I said.

After our escape, Delilah came to me in stories. Here is my favourite. Delilah’s psychologist was a young, supercilious man called Eccles, who positioned himself in the middle of every table, and enjoyed telling Dr K how satisfied he was with his patient’s progress. In the victimhood charts, Delilah had surpassed Survivorhood, and reached Transcendence. ‘Personally,’ said Dr K, ‘I have a limited tolerance for such categorizations.’ Delilah gave the star victim impact statement at Mother’s trial, and on this basis, Eccles was preparing the paper to end all papers, which he intended to see published in the Annual Review of Psychology, and, in all likelihood, reported worldwide. A week before its release, Delilah requested that all references to her be removed from the essay. She had rejuvenated her faith, and going forward, she would be working with God, rather than Eccles.

‘Nice place,’ Delilah said. ‘I guess being smart still pays.’

She would still be the best-looking person in any room I could think of. She wore a white dress and a cut of lipstick, and a cross which you couldn’t ignore. She slid from her jacket and threw it to the floor, and stretched out across the sofa at the end of the bed. Long, delicate limbs dangled down to the carpet.

‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. I would have preferred a later meeting.’

‘I was volunteering,’ she said, ‘when I received your call.’

She said volunteering in a way that implored me to ask for additional information. Instead, I said: ‘Oh.’

‘You sounded incoherent,’ she said.

‘I was catching up with friends. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘it was close by, and convenient. It isn’t always so easy for me to get away. And you made it sound urgent.’

She gazed around the room – seeking out the calamity – and looked back to me, nonplussed.

‘It’s about Mother,’ I said. ‘I should give my condolences, I guess. I know that you were closer to her than I was.’

She laughed. When she did, I saw that there was a gap in her teeth. Halfway back, left-hand side. We had all required extensive dental work after the escape. I couldn’t recall if it had been there then.

‘How thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘They’re burying her on prison property. I thought that was best.’

‘And after so much consultation.’

She closed her eyes. Exhaled.

‘You didn’t even visit her,’ she said. ‘Did you?’

‘I had better things to do with my weekends.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you did. I’m sure there was always a lecture to attend. Or – what? A dinner?’

She spoke to the ceiling, now, and I couldn’t see her face.

‘She would ask about you,’ she said. ‘She would come hobbling out, looking all around the room. Holding her stomach, like she’s still pregnant. And every time she saw me, it was like she couldn’t believe that I’d come. She liked to do these activities. Rather than talking, I guess. They’d put these special events on for Mothers’ Day or Christmas or whatever, and she liked us to sit there, and – I don’t know. We’d be surrounded by kids. Making wreaths, or greeting cards. You know. Crafts.’

‘Crafts?’

‘Crafts. We’d make one each, and sometimes, after that, she’d suggest we make one for Evie, or Daniel, or one of the others. But usually for you.’

‘Delilah—’

‘I know. They wouldn’t have been to your taste. There were other days – she just wanted to know what you were up to. She wanted the link to your page on the firm website. Stuff like that. You weren’t allowed to take phones in. I had to write down the whole fucking URL.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ I said.

With a long sigh, she sat up. ‘Don’t you ever get tired,’ she said, ‘of hating them?’