When Si’s considered silence becomes too much, I say, ‘Maybe he is freaking out because he attacked someone and he knows I saw him and he is shitting it that I’m going to tell someone?’

I take out a cigarette and starting rolling it between my fingers, breathing out through my nose, trying to block out Si’s concerned eyes, the eyes of the doctors and the nurses and all those bloody counsellors. The eyes that say clearly what the voice doesn’t dare: I don’t believe you.

I want to stand up and throw my chair at him, to storm out of the pub and run down the high street and scream in the faces of strangers who pass me until I find the man I am looking for, but instead I look up at Si and take a moment to compose myself. It’s not like I have a million other people left on my side to turn to.

‘You’re right,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I probably just imagined it.’

‘Issy, I’m not saying that you imagined it, for God’s sake, will you listen to me? Jesus, you are so bloody frustrating. What I am trying to say is that if this happened – or rather as this has happened – then we need to go back to the police …’

‘I have,’ I say, quietly, looking down at the unlit cigarette.

‘And?’

I don’t want to tell him about my delay in going to the station, about the reason I held off, about the party and the drugs. I don’t want to tell him any of it, so that he can take it back to Ben and the two of them can roll their eyes in pity, or divine some sort of intervention. I’ve already had more pity in the past year than I can stomach.

‘They’re looking into it,’ I say.

He stops. ‘Isobel, you know you can talk to me, yeah? I know you’ve been having a really hard time, with your friend and … everything.’

I push my chair back. ‘I’m knackered, I need to go home.’

Si reaches out his hand. ‘Don’t go.’

‘No, seriously, I’m tired,’ I say, picking up my bag as he stands.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, Si, not tonight. I need to sleep.’

There is a flash of hurt and then he sits back down and takes a swig of his drink.

Looking away, he says, ‘Fine then, see you tomorrow.’

The walk from the pub to my front door takes less than five minutes. Camden Town has descended into its usual haze of stumbling drunks and anxious crackheads lurking in phone boxes. Briefly I find myself comforted by the familiar tinkle of bottles smashing somewhere in the distance, car horns and swells of sound drifting onto the street as pub doors crash open and shut.