‘Sorry.’

‘Well?’

I don’t answer. There’s no point. Anything I say will be taken down and used in evidence against me. But I know they’ll keep on and on anyway. My father has that look.

‘Explain yourself,’ he says.

Oh well. Here goes…

‘I’m sorry. I got distracted. I was trying to do my homework.’

‘Don’t lie.’ It’s my mother’s standard response to pretty much anything I say. OK, this time it really was a lie, but I could hardly tell her what I was actually doing. But even if I don’t lie, she still thinks I do. I just bow my head and hope they’ll leave it. Fat chance.

Mother is about to open her mouth to give me the third degree when my father interrupts.

‘What’s that stain on your sleeve? It looks like blood.’

And it is, of course. I couldn’t have done the dressing up tightly enough. And it’s my favourite cardigan too. But before I have a chance to respond or even do anything mother has demanded I remove it immediately and show her. Then she rips the dressing off. It’s stuck, where the blood has started to clot, but she’s so rough it tears open again and blood drips onto the tablecloth.

‘You stupid child!’ Then she steps back, not quite comprehending what she’s seeing. But it doesn’t take long for her to recognize the older scabs—more than a dozen of them—for what they are. My secret’s out.

‘How long?’ she demands. ‘How long have you been doing this, Araminta?’