No. She told him that she had become involved with a married man. No mention of impropriety or coercion. It was any other torrid affair with an older, unavailable man. She loved London. She loved the people. She didn’t want to go home yet. But she didn’t know how to end things without being fired, which would mean that she would have to leave or find another job, quickly.

Or she could carry on, hoping the kids don’t walk in or the wife doesn’t come home early as a surprise. It’s not much of a life. The pay is great but it can’t go on. It’s not worth it.

That’s what she tells Erickson and he does the classic psychiatrist response of saying nothing because she is talking and answering herself at the same time. She needs to tell somebody who isn’t going to judge her. Confession to a priest would work if it wasn’t for the sentencing at the end. Though a handful of Hail Marys is a romantic stroll, kicking up fallen autumn leaves, compared to the internal haemorrhaging the Au Pair is destined for.

Three cards for Diamond Taxis pepper the doormat along with copies of the unchanged menu from the local Indian takeaway. She reads her letter, the one that tells her that nothing important happened today and she discards it piece by piece on the way to work.

She spends the day with the youngest child, on her own, playing and reading. She makes her lunch. She picks the elder two up from school, takes them back, makes them do their homework and prepares their dinner.

Their mother gets home first, which means the Au Pair doesn’t have to degrade herself today, but the father manages to get home before she leaves so that he has the chance to at least grab her arse one last time.

There’s no emotional goodbye for the kids, that’s not allowed. All that’s left is the walk to Tower Bridge, pay the eight pounds and get out on to the roof. She has no idea how many people will be there. She doesn’t know any of them. All she knows is to jump on the second scream.

113

236–255

We don’t want to die.

But it is very clear. Two screams.

The silence lifts over the capital. Car horns. Gasps. Boats. Cameras clicking. Engines. People. That London thrum.

This isn’t a movie where the villain spends too long explaining what they have done and their motivation behind it. That’s not real. Nobody is here to stop the bad guy. And we are not waiting around.

The guard that let us up here is fat and slow and doesn’t get paid enough to venture out and stop us.

Nothing can stop us.