The clip was shorter than their encounter had been, the whole video only two minutes and twenty-five seconds, but it stuttered and buffered because the reception in this stupid fucking shithole was rooted. When the thing finally started playing more than one second at a time, it became clear that there had been two cameras in the room. One on the desk, filming the entire thing from the side. Another must have been on the bedside table, his phone, probably, angled to film her breasts front on when she was on top. It was a smooth editing job, not just splicing the two different angles together, but seamlessly excising the bit where she stopped him until he put on a condom and when she asked him to stop saying all that nasty shit. He’d also erased the end, where he said her name so tenderly and kissed her neck and face. Instead, there was a three-second scene in which she’s in the background pulling on her undies. He faces the camera, sweaty-chested, dick hanging, face covered by a giant smile emoji. He holds up seven fingers, turns to look at her arse, then shrugs and folds one finger down. An animation of a bikini-clad woman holding a scorecard bearing the number 6 fills the screen.

Lena replayed the video, muting the sound this time. It was remarkable that he’d managed to keep their faces off camera throughout. No amount of editing could achieve that. Some serious thought had gone into the camera placement and choreography. She could see now how he kept repositioning her so that her body filled the screen and her face—though not the back of her head with its wildly swinging ponytail—was always out of shot. Was this intended as a kindness or as protection against legal action? How would that work? You can’t tell it’s her so no harm done?

In either case, he was clearly as big an idiot as he was an arse-hole. For a minute and twenty-nine seconds he has her grinding away on top of him, and for at least a third of those eighty-nine seconds, the footage is taken from the side so the goddamn instantly recognisable keloid scar is rippling its way up and down her arm.

Her phone kept dinging. She switched it to silent; it buzzed and buzzed. She read every message, answered none. At ten she showered and washed her hair and got dressed for lunch. If anyone knew how to deal with a catastrophe like this it was Aunty Nic. Of course, it was possible that on hearing the story Nic would catch a taxi out to the college to saw Josh’s balls off with her nail file. Lena would do her best to discourage this, but only because she would miss this weekly lunch if her aunt was sent to jail.