Beth scratches her palms and realises how sticky they are. She thinks about stroking Luna. Perhaps the shampoo the groomer used isn’t so lovely after all. Or maybe Luna’s fur has been cross-contaminated, carrying the germs of other, dirtier dogs. In fact, she can feel them burrowing through her skin now. She quicksteps over to the sink, flicks the tap round to the hottest setting and thrusts her hands underneath. The scalding water soothes her, the antibacterial soap even more. But now she can see smears on the glass surface of the induction hob. And two crumbs where it meets the white quartz worktop.

She feels sick, suffocated by the dirt floating around her. She holds her breath – she mustn’t let the germs in – then she runs into the utility room, pulls out a freshly laundered towel and buries her face in it. It smells good, like the forest near St-Tropez that they visited last summer, and it allows her to breathe, momentarily shutting out the other terrors swirling around her kitchen.

But the reprieve is over in seconds. She needs more than a memory of fresh air.

She grabs her house keys and whips the sliding door closed. It’s an involuntary action – they always shut Luna inside the kitchen when they go out – but today it also helps to create some distance between Beth and the dirt-infested space. She needs to make it clean, but she also can’t bear to be in there. She takes a deep breath, and another, conscious that Saskia might be watching, then pulls the front door open and starts walking down the street. The girls have musical theatre club after school, so they won’t finish for over an hour. But she could go to Northcote Road, get a takeout chamomile tea. Calm herself down.

Her skin feels like it’s burning, but the cold air is a tonic, cooling her temperature, eventually allowing her to slow her pace. The sun is low in the sky ahead of her and even its weak winter glare is too much. She looks away, momentarily blinded, then back again.

And then he’s there, in front of her, stopping her path.

‘It’s you,’ he shouts, spit flying into the air. Did it land on her? Did it touch her skin? ‘My mate’s dead because of you.’

She stumbles backwards a few steps.

‘You won’t get away with this,’ he warns. ‘I won’t let you.’

Beth pushes down on her trainers, darts across the road. She doesn’t check for cars, but it still feels safer, more visible, than trying to outrun him on the pavement. Three women pushing buggies on the opposite side are like magnets, emitting an aura of safety, and Beth slips in behind them.