Now, she stifles a yawn and heads for her bedroom. She’s barely slept in twenty-four hours and she’s been prodded, poked and questioned by doctors. There were no signs of concussion, the doctor said when he examined her, but there was some pretty violent bruising on her neck and the base of her skull.

She pushes at her bedroom door, still ajar from when she crept out last night, and looks longingly at the bed. All she wants to do is crawl under the duvet and sleep, but not here. She wants to be at home, in her own bed; she’ll stop at a service station once she’s on the motorway and buy a coffee and some sweets to keep herself awake. She strips off her pyjamas, deliberates about whether or not to take a shower, then decides against it – too much faff – and pulls on a pair of jeans and a jumper instead. She pulls a hairbrush through her hair then packs it in her suitcase, along with her pyjamas and her toiletries, adds her book and medication then zips it up. She unplugs her charger and picks up her phone. There’s a text from Caroline complaining about hospital food and asking for news, one from Fran’s mother demanding an update and then another, three minutes later, all in caps, accusing Fran of being callous and cruel. Sighing, she tucks the phone and the charger into her handbag. As she turns to pull her suitcase off the bed she sees a flash of black in the doorway.

‘There you are,’ Damian says.

Fran clutches her handbag to her body, desperately wishing she could rewind time thirty seconds so her phone would be in her hand, not nestled in her bag. She could unclip it, dig her hand in and grab her mobile. She could call the police. It would take her seven, eight seconds tops from opening the catch to hitting 999, but Damian’s tall, with long legs. He could cross the room in a lot less.

‘Damian.’ She looks him in the eye but her throat is dry and as she swallows his gaze drifts to her throat.

He’s so wide he fills the doorway. She could escape through the window but it’s closed. There’s no way she could turn the handle, push it open and climb out. Not when it would take him seconds to grab her. She’ll have to talk her way out – of the room, if nothing else.

‘We’re the only ones here,’ he says.

‘Can we talk?’ she asks. ‘Out there, in the lounge.’

Damian shrugs. ‘I suppose so, aye.’