I cough. It distracts him but then, just as he turns around to look, I drop back behind the sofa, unable to hold my ground. I am terrified of being found here in this house, but she has to be more important than that and I am furious that I can’t control my instincts. But I see that he’s released her now. He turns back towards her, then the shock of what he has done – is doing – seems to hit him. She gasps, clutching her throat, and levers herself off the table, breathing hard.

He seems to have forgotten what distracted him and is now holding her gently by the forearms.

‘I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so … I’m drunk. And you just – you know how much I hate being compared to him. If you hadn’t—’

‘Me?’ she exclaims. ‘Me? You nearly killed me! What the hell’s wrong with you—’

I peer round the edge of the leather sofa in time to see her spin around and launch a flat hand at his face. As soon as the blow lands, almost before the sound ripples to my ears, he reacts, as if bound by the laws of physics – every force has an equal and opposite reaction. The moment her hand whips his skin, he swings his fist into her face. They are like two table tennis players who play just one shot each. It is that quick.

Her head snaps back with a crack. She freezes then. Her face is a pale, perfectly still surprise. My heart stops. My head pounds, and in that gap when all things still remain possible, my life flashes before me in a kaleidoscope.

Bright light moments. Heavy sadness. Regrets, mainly.

My mind gathers as many strands of my life as it can in that divided infinite sub-second, like it’s fleeing from a burning building. My last possessions.

The woman’s knees buckle as if the bones in her legs have vaporised. She drops. Then there is another dull crack as her body pulls the back of her head down hard on the edge of the table. And then, finally, another thud as she lands scattered on the floor.