She can see her mother, in the hotel bed—in the old Jurys on the Western Road—and Cynthia pretends that she’s asleep—for the child’s sake—but she’s turning again and again in a hot, awful soak, and she can feel the heat off her, it radiates, she’s like a brick oven, and Maurice sits by the window, it’s very late, it’s summer and such a humid night, and he’s looking out to the car park, smoking a number, and very lowly, under his breath, he’s going fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck and she knew then that they were definitely not like other families.
