How did it feel to kill him, Judith? I imagine it felt good, knowing how much damage he had done to you. And he was waiting to do more. Just waiting – anticipating the moment when you felt the pain.

I want to tell the doctor to shut up and go away, but I’m back in his study, lying on his couch, clothes loosened, listening to his voice.

Talk to me about the moment you hit him, he’s saying. Imagine it again in your mind, knowing that the life of this worthless man is being snuffed out. Does it feel good?

Even though I now know that I never touched Ian, apart from elbowing him in the stomach when I last visited, it had felt good, just for a moment, to think that he had got what he deserved.

I can only imagine the sense of euphoria – of release. With each blow the tentacles he had wrapped around you, growing tighter each and every day, suddenly slackened, loosened, finally fell away, and you were able to walk free. Was it the best moment of your life, Judith? I imagine it was. Trust me, Judith. You have to trust me. You did the right thing.

Ian is still shouting about all the things he has never had a chance to do, and how his short time in prison had shown him how much I owe him, and how he’s going to make sure that I pay for what he has been through, because it was all my fault.

I know I should go upstairs, get dressed and call the police. But the doctor is still hissing in my ear.

Relive it, Judith. Lift that hammer high. Feel the swish of the air moving as it swings down, the sense of climax as you are released from Ian’s control. The elation you feel as you wipe him out.

I stare at the knife block in front of me. Ian was warned not to come back here, to keep away from me. The police have seen his abusive emails, the threats. And yet here he is. He isn’t going to go away. I will never be rid of him.

Do it, Judith. Do it again. Relive it.

I lift the meat cleaver out of the block. I walk back into the living room and stand behind Ian’s chair. He hasn’t heard me return. He is still shouting about what I am going to have to do, and his words wash over me like angry clouds, blackening the sky and everything beneath. I raise the cleaver in both hands, high above my head.

Then I repeat the words that the doctor made me say over and over again: ‘My name is Judith. And I killed a man.’

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A LETTER TO MY READERS

A LETTER TO MY READERS

Dear Reader