Chapter One

ONE

Inside Laura’s head, Deidre spoke. The trouble with you, Laura, she said, is that you make bad choices.

Too fucking right, Deidre.Not something Laura expected to say or even think, but standing there in her bathroom, shaking uncontrollably, blood pulsing hot and steady from the cut to her arm, she had to admit that imaginary Deidre was bang on the money. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against the mirror so that she wouldn’t have to look herself in the eye, only looking down was worse, because that way she could watch the blood ooze out of her, and it made her woozy, made her feel like she might throw up. So much blood. The cut was deeper than she’d thought; she ought to go to the hospital. There was no way she was going to the hospital.

Bad choices.

When at last the flow of blood seemed to slow, Laura took off her T-shirt and dropped it on the floor, slipped out of her jeans, dropped her knickers, and wriggled out of her bra, inhaling sharply through her teeth as the metal catch scraped against the cut, hissing, “Fuck fuck mother of fuck.”

She dropped the bra on the floor too, clambered into the bathtub, and turned on the shower, then stood shivering under the paltry trickle of scalding water (her shower offered a choice of very hot or very cold, nothing in between). She ran the tips of her wrinkled fingers back and forth over her beautiful, bone-white scars: hip, thigh, shoulder, back of skull. Here I am, she said quietly to herself. Here I am.

Afterward, her forearm wrapped ineffectually in reams of toilet paper, the rest of her wrapped in a threadbare towel, sitting on the ugly gray pleather sofa in her living room, Laura rang her mother. It went to voicemail, and she hung up. No point wasting credit. She rang her father next. “You all right, chicken?” She could hear noises in the background, the radio, 5 Live.

“Dad.” She felt a lump rise to her throat and she swallowed it.

“What’s up?”

“Dad, could you come round? I . . . I had a bad night. I was wondering if you could just come over for a bit, I know it’s a bit of a drive but I—”

No, Philip.Deidre, in the background, hissing through clenched teeth. We’ve got bridge.

“Dad? Could you take me off speaker?”

“Sweetheart, I—”

“Seriously, could you take me off speaker? I don’t want to hear her voice; it makes me want to set fire to things.”

“Now, come on, Laura.”

“Just forget it, Dad, it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?”

No I’m not no I’m not no I’m fucking not.“Yeah, sure. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

On her way to the bedroom, she stepped on her jacket, which she’d dropped in the hallway in her rush to get to the bathroom. She bent down and picked it up. The sleeve was torn, Daniel’s watch still in the pocket. She took the watch out, turned it over, slipped it over her wrist. The toilet paper around her forearm bloomed scarlet, her limb throbbing gently as the blood pulsed out of her. Her head swam. In the bathroom, she dropped the watch into the sink, tore off the paper, dropped the towel on the floor. Climbed back under the shower.

Using a pair of scissors to scrape beneath her fingernails, she watched the water running rosy at her feet. She closed her eyes. She listened to Daniel’s voice asking, What is wrong with you? and Deidre’s voice saying, Bridge, Philip, we’ve got bridge, and to her own. Set fire to things. Set fire. Set fire set fire set fire.