Thea left me last night after she showed me the hammer. She took everything with her – my clothes, the flannels she had used to wash the remnants of blood from both me and the floor, and the claw hammer. I never asked what she intended to do with any of it, I only know that I felt totally dazed. And I was so cold. The bath water was warm, but my whole body was covered in goosebumps, and however much I rubbed my arms, they wouldn’t go away. They still won’t, even now.

I forced myself to get out of the bath and dried myself quickly, wrapping the towel around me to run to my bedroom. Thea said she would be back with something to help me sleep, but I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to lie there – awake – wondering whether I had done something terrible. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. I know that my behaviour yesterday was aggressive, but not violent, never violent. Just words and a few gestures to demonstrate my anger and frustration.

I have to be rational. The dead man was probably some random bloke in Crumpsall. It might have nothing to do with Ian at all. But what if it does? I can’t wipe from my mind the people who had seen me yelling at him, throwing his clothes out of the window.

I’m being ridiculous. Surely there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. But where did the hammer come from, and why was I covered in blood? Did I go to see Ian and then someone came in while I was there and attacked him? Did I try to defend us both?

My mind is spinning round and round, thinking of every single possibility. Because none of it makes sense.

It’s light now, so I know it’s morning, but I haven’t slept. Thea’s infusion is still sitting next to the bed. I wish the television in here worked so I could find out what was happening, but I have no access to the Internet, television or radio. I feel blind and deaf.

Someone is coming along the corridor. I don’t know if I’m ready to speak to anyone, but I don’t suppose I have a choice.

Thea knocks briefly on the door and pushes it open. She is frowning, the corners of her mouth turned down and deep worry lines between her eyebrows.

‘What is it?’ I ask, sitting up in bed and leaning eagerly forward. Perhaps she has discovered that the victim is some unknown vagrant and there’s a perfectly sensible explanation for the blood.

She walks over to the bed and sits down.

‘I’m so sorry, my dear. They have announced the name of the victim on the news. Is Ian’s surname Fullerton?’

I nod, speechless.