Door bolted, I pulled down the seat, sat and rolled up my sleeve. My white flesh, delicate, glaring. The wrapper crinkled as it tore. I hadn’t done it since I was a teen. But I needed to feel something else, to release the tension. Feel what she went through. Punish myself in the same way. For her, the baby. To be honest, I didn’t think I could do it. The tip glistened under the harsh strip light. I pinched it between the fingers on my right hand. Brought it down onto the soft skin. Watched the dimple it created first. Like the buttons on her pink velour headboard. Then in it went. Pierced the surface. My eyes screwed. Bit my lip at the immense pain as I scraped down. Straight line. Amateur surgeon. The blood came. A parting sea. Not gushing, emerging. I watched, yet it didn’t scare me. I’d faced it.

I pulled and pulled toilet roll off to soak up the blood. Pressing hard to stop it coming. It was shallow but stung, throbbed. I put the needle back in the wrapper, rolled it in toilet roll and dropped it into the sanitary bin. When I removed the wad from my arm, its remnants stuck to the coagulated sections. Like Dad’s shaving cuts. I peeled off the remaining scraps, wincing. Flushed the soiled tissues. It was the shame that made me cry. Not the pain. I pulled more off the roll. The blood was stopping now. Clotting. I ran the wound under the tap.

Aware I’d been so long, I gathered paper towels this time and patted it dry. Wrapping one around my forearm, before rolling down my sleeve, scanning the room for evidence. The only thing that remained was the arm itself, burning under my cardigan.

By the time Mr Franks, your last patient, had left, the warm, sticky blood had seeped through my sleeve. But I decided not to prolong my fate any further and went to your room.

After calling me in, you finished writing in your diary. Letting me stand there, until eventually, you said, ‘I still haven’t found my bloody pen. You couldn’t ring Mrs Carter and Mrs Johnson, could you? Check if I left it there during house calls?’ You turned, looked up.

I nodded. ‘Sure.’

Your eyes were flat. They didn’t knock me off balance, make my stomach swirl. Not now they connected to someone else.

‘Are you still ill, Constance? You look very pale.’

‘No . . . no, I’m fine, thank you.’ I squeezed my arm to stop the sting. ‘Linda said you wanted to see me?’

‘Oh right . . . yes . . . I made it sound formal to her, but I just wanted a chat – see how you were feeling?’ You swivelled round and chewed on your biro. Not the portrait of a man worried about his unborn child. ‘Shall I check your chest?’