She slides her boxing wraps over her knuckles now, then straps on her gloves. There’s a row of garages at the side of her block of flats, rented out to any resident who has three hundred quid going spare each month. Kat doesn’t fall into that category, but the two guys who live underneath her do, and they’ve chosen to use their garage as a makeshift boxing gym. It took Kat a couple of months to build up the courage to ask if she could borrow the space, but once she did, the rest was easy. Will and Jayden both work nights, so they gave her a key to the padlock, and said she could have free run of the place from 6 p.m. onwards. In return she grooms their dog every six weeks or so – a jack tzu called Jack, which Jayden assures her is an ironic name, not an unimaginative one.

The bag is attached to the roof by a thick metal chain. She jabs it once, rolls her shoulders as it swings away, then jabs again as the pendulum shift brings it closer. As she increases the speed of her punches, she stays light on her feet, gloves up at her face, protecting her features as the bag takes a beating. It twists and flies, but she’s ready for it, spinning on her toes, varying her swing, hooking with her right, then delivering an uppercut with her left. She loves the feeling of power that it gives her, as well as the energy that it strips away. And she loves the total concentration that it demands, no room for any other thoughts to infiltrate.

Like why her mum had to marry a prick like Javier when Kat was 6, then bring Sofia and Gabriela into the world with their pretty names and glowing half-Spanish skin, so cruelly perfect compared to hers. And why her dad had to die when she’d finally found a place where she thought she belonged.

And of course why she’s alone on a Saturday night, fighting a punchbag.

She keeps going until every muscle is screaming to stop and she’s confident that her body is exhausted enough for sleep to come quickly tonight. Then she packs her gear into her sports bag, pulls her fleece over her damp Lycra and feels her body temperature start to drop again. She finished work at six and it’s now eight o’clock, so she’s killed two hours.

Only two hours.

How is she supposed to distract herself for the rest of the evening?

On Friday night she’d made the decision to forget about the MyNeighbour post. Even if she’s right about who the woman is, revisiting those memories is too risky, the chance of redemption too slim. She’d cemented her choice by cooking some complicated recipe for supper and watching all three episodes of Tyson Fury: The Gypsy King on her laptop.