It was strange how quickly hours and hours of memory could suddenly replay themselves. Louise was standing in a bar in Portsmouth with her bag over her shoulder and had faltered for only a second. That was the truth of it.

And yet the truth of it was also that she had been sitting at another bar for almost an hour while a tall, handsome Italian bought her drinks. While he charmed her. She couldn’t quite remember his name. And she felt as though he was familiar somehow, but she wasn’t sure how and had somehow missed the part where she should have asked.

She had also been thinking about Dina and Niall. Specifically, about Dina’s hand on Niall’s knee, and she had rested her hand on this man’s leg, imagining that she was Dina. That she had that sort of power. And the handsome man had given her a long, slow smile and said, ‘Drink up.’

And then she’d been leaning too heavily against the bar. She’d felt too drunk. Sick drunk. She’d become suddenly frightened of it and of herself, and she’d stood up, unsteadily. She found out only then that the man’s hand had been right at the top of her thigh. And she was no longer sure that she even knew who he was. What had she been thinking?

‘Are you leaving?’ he’d asked. And she’d tried to focus on his face. He seemed to be giving her a smile that wasn’t quite right.

‘Yes,’ she’d told him. ‘Sorry. I need to – to go home.’

She picked up her handbag and went staggering out into the hall, weaving almost from wall to wall as she went.

And she was still in that second of frozen time on the dance floor, but she had also spent what felt like hours trying to stay steady on her feet and on her stupid fucking heels as she stumbled up London Road. Somewhere during those hours, she’d glanced behind her and seen that not-quite-right smile following her, and she’d felt frightened.

She’d pulled out her phone but somehow been unable to unlock it. Her fingers weren’t working. They had become someone else’s. And so she’d started trying to run.

And then, without any time passing, she’d been on her face in the earth, sobbing into the ground as he pressed a knife into her lower back. And she recognised his voice this time. She’d heard the Sheffield lilt back in the club, back when he’d been saying nice things to her.

‘Please don’t,’ she’d told him. ‘Please. Please.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth.’

Her hair had been over her face as he’d turned her over, and she’d felt like she might vomit through it. She felt dizzy. Unwell. Nauseous.