I heard her inhale. Or maybe she was sucking on a cigarette – ‘my little crutches’, as she used to call them. She said, ‘Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks.’

‘I…’ I was trying to think how long it had been since I’d spoken to her. Three or four years. And here she was, talking to me as if we weren’t strangers, her voice filled with that oh-so-familiar tone of indignation.

‘I expect your friend didn’t bother to tell you.’

‘I think he may have…

She interrupted. ‘So how are you? How’s London?’

‘It’s fine.’

She grunted. There was a long silence. Awkward was not the word for it.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said, inhaling again, ‘I’ve got some sad news for you.’

I tensed, wondering what it was. Was she coming to visit me? I shuddered.

‘Your Great Uncle Clive passed away.’

Who? ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ I wanted to ask why on earth she felt the need to call me and tell me about the death of some distant relative who I’d probably met at some function or other but who I had absolutely no recollection of.

‘Yes. It was very sad.’

There was another long, painful pause. I could hear the distant sound of laughter through the walls: Si and Nat in his bedroom. I started to chew my thumbnail, just like I used to until Mum made me smear my nails with a foul-tasting liquid. I could taste it now.

She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I needed to talk to you because Uncle Clive left you and Annette some money. I’ve got a cheque for four thousand pounds sitting here with your name on it. So, assuming you want it, and I don’t know why you wouldn’t, you’ll have to come and get it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, I’m not going to send it to you. I don’t know what kind of person you live with. You might not get it.’

‘No, I meant, can you say that again? Uncle Clive left me some ... money?’

She huffed. ‘Yes – four thousand.. It was in his will – he wanted his money to be divided up between all the family. Not that either of you kids ever bothered to go and see him. Just like you never come to see me.’

There was a pause, during which I visualised a cheque for four grand. Then I imagined myself having to venture into the dragon’s cave to get it.

‘It’s perfectly safe for you to send it here,’ I said.

I could picture her shaking her head, sending fag ash flying. ‘No. You’ll have to come here to get it. Is that really such an awful prospect?’

God yes. ‘It’s just that I’m really busy...’

She puffed. ‘Look, if you don’t want the cheque I can always send it back to the solicitor.’

I started to speak and she stamped on my words: ‘Look, the cheque’s here. If you want it, you know where I am.’ She hung up.

I walked back to my room, in shock. £4000. With £4000 I could pay back Siobhan, and still have a decent amount left over – enough to help me get by while I looked for a job. Of course I wanted it. I needed it. But having to go back home to get it – that fact turned the sweet news sour.

This was her way of maintaining her power over me. She need never have told me about the money – she could have spent it on herself, on fags and make-up and the live scorpions she enjoys eating for lunch (okay, that’s an exaggeration – she only eats dead ones). But then she must have schemed up the idea of making me go there to get it. If only I didn’t need the money – it would give me great pleasure to tell her to keep it, or give it to her favourite charity, the National Society for Cruelty to Children. But I do need it. It’s the only way to sever my ties with Siobhan and get on with my life. It’s been a huge stroke of luck for me to be left this money – it’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder if I have some kind of guardian angel. It would be stupid of me to turn it down.

Sunday

I’ve just spent a whole night and day with Emily and for most of those hours I felt drunk. Now she’s gone though, the anxiety is starting to creep back: I’ve decided I’m going to go home tomorrow, to pick up my cheque.

‘That’s such good news,’ Emily said, when I told her about the money. We were lying in bed, her head resting on my chest, her hair soft and slightly tickly against my skin.

‘I know. But I don’t want to have to go there to get it.’

‘Why?’ She rolled onto her front so she could look at me properly. She smelled delicious and warm. ‘Why do you hate your mum so much?’

I sighed and closed my eyes. It was so difficult to explain. How could I summarise it? Years of small cruelties, subtle abuses of power and trust. I said, ‘Because she hates me.’

Emily looked taken aback. ‘How can your mother hate you, Alex?’

‘Because I’m too much like my dad, I suppose. Well, according to her, I am. I wouldn’t know.’

She waited for me to continue.

‘My dad left my mum when she was pregnant with my sister, Annette, who’s two years younger than me. So he left her with a two year old and a bump. I don’t remember him, of course – all I remember are the things my mother used to say about him.’ I rubbed my eyes. Telling this tale made me feel tired. ‘When I was growing up, I couldn’t understand why she was so awful to me. Then I worked out that she blamed me for what happened. But even if you think about it logically, it doesn’t make sense: why didn’t she hate Annette? He hadn’t left until she fell pregnant with my sister.’

‘So she treated the two of you differently?’

‘Definitely. It was as if the two of them were allies and I was some kind of enemy within. Maybe it was just because I was a man. Maybe I looked like him. Maybe I reminded her of when he was around. I don’t know. But my earliest memory is of her having a go at me because I’d knocked over a glass of blackcurrant; and Annette was there in the background, just a baby, laughing along.’

Emily stroked my chest.

‘I suppose there were times when Mum was…a normal mother. If I got into trouble at school she would defend me, too vociferously sometimes, marching into school and shouting at the teachers, so they started to dislike me too. And I remember this time when I was really sick. I had this awful fever, hallucinating.’ I laughed. ‘You won’t believe this, but I could see Tetley Tea Bag men climbing up the curtains.’

Emily smiled and said, ‘Beats pink elephants.’

‘Hmm. So…. where was I? Um, so she was nice sometimes. There was another time, when I ate too many Creme Eggs and was really sick and she nursed me. But most of the time she was a cow. She wasn’t really violent – not often, anyway. She would shake me; she slapped me a couple of times. Oh God, and once she caned me. Shit, I’d almost forgotten about that.’ I paused, waiting for the memory to crystallise. ‘I remember why she did it. I’d been running around in the playground at school and some kid had tripped me over. When I hit the concrete my trousers ripped – they were ruined. Mum said she was going to teach me a lesson for being so clumsy. She had this length of bamboo, and she made me hold out my hand, palm up. I was trembling; it was really hard to keep my hand outstretched. But she said that every time I snatched my hand away she’d add two strikes.’

Emily took hold of my hand and kissed my fingers.

‘The thing is, that kind of cruelty was easier to deal with than the day-to-day mental stuff. The insults, the piss-taking, the sarcasm. That wore me down, made me feel useless, pathetic. But I didn’t know how to deal with her; she knew exactly how to control me. I just used to think, as soon as I’m eighteen I’ll be able to leave home and then I’ll never have to speak to her again. And I used to imagine myself becoming rich and famous so I could tell the world what a bitch she was.’ I laughed mirthlessly. ‘I have a lot of sympathy for Eminem.’

‘And have you spoken to her since?’

‘A few times. I saw her a few years ago. But I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to forget she exists. Which isn’t easy. And now I’ve got to go back there, to see her. I’m still having to play her fucking power games.’