The door was open just a crack.

Mum was perched on the edge of a chair in front of a big desk. She had on her favourite purple dress. Her hair was wound into a clip. It caught the sunlight that slanted through the window, and shone like a twist of barley sugar. Her face was obscured by a statue of the Virgin. The statue was made from desert wood, with gnarled features and tortured limbs. I didn’t like it.

Mum was talking to a sour-faced nun. Their voices were low and strained. Occasionally, I’d hear mine or my brother’s name mentioned, but nothing more. There were other sounds, too: a tolling bell; hushed whispers from further down the corridor; the distant sound of children playing and somebody shouting before everything went quiet. The smoky smell of incense caught...

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