‘I haven’t asked specifically about rape.’

I’m certain, though. He raped me, for years.

‘She doesn’t want me to involve the police.’

I wish I hadn’t mentioned the police to her, she was frightened.

‘Can I bring her now?’

The woman explains that Lina would be welcome to seek immediate refuge but that she will need more details from Lina and she must ask for refuge herself. That’s crucial. They have translators if language is a problem – women in many refuges speak Arabic, though it will depend which dialect she speaks: Levantine, Bedawi or Mesopotamian, for instance; there are many others. Funding will be necessary; normally there’s a process of application for money.

‘I can pay, whatever it costs.’

She’s advised it’s best to travel a distance from the abuser, out of London if possible; is there anywhere that she might like? Melissa stares at the map on the wall above Paul’s desk, scanning cities at speed: Oxford, Brighton, Guildford, Chichester. The little red circles blur and jump: Reading, Swindon, Bath, Salisbury. The circle steadies.

‘Would Salisbury be possible? I’ll be working nearby, so I can visit. Yes, of course; I’ll wait.’

Melissa puts her phone on silent and creeps into her bedroom. Paul’s mouth is open, his arms flung wide. He looks unconscious. She retrieves his keys from the floor by his side of the bed where he dropped them. When her phone vibrates, she tiptoes from the room to answer. Lina will be welcome in the Salisbury refuge, she is told, provided she asks for herself. One of the clients is Arabic – she speaks in Mesopotamian dialect but is familiar with some others – hopefully they will be able to communicate. She is given the number, which she puts into her phone.

‘Lina will call on the way; we need to leave now. Thank you, thank you.’

The clock on Paul’s desk reads seven a.m. They’ll reach Salisbury by nine depending on traffic. By the time she returns, Paul will be at work. She’ll pack then, and collect Izzy from Eve’s after school; their new life will start.

The large white filing cabinet in Paul’s study is locked. She opens his desk drawers in turn, leafing fast through papers, documents, bills, envelopes. In the bottom drawer she pushes two empty whisky bottles aside, finding the red woollen pouch Izzy knitted him when she was a child for his most important, secret things. The keys to the filing cabinet are inside as she thought they would be; he always does what Izzy tells him to.