And then he lashes out. His arms grip my neck. He squeezes. Like a hug, the kind of hug that you’re forced to bow into. Then tighter. Too tight. I want to push him – away from my body – but that would be bad nursing practice. I could break one of his ribs. It would take so little to break one. If only I could shove him. I hate you. I try to pull my head back, but it’s locked in his hold. I breathe in the expensive musk fragrance that we are paid to dab behind his ears. The yeasty smell that spills from his mouth, the hidden, rotting flesh of his throat. I submit to the hug. If I stay still perhaps he’ll release me. He doesn’t. I feel my cheeks heating up. It’s hard to breathe against his leathery neck. I struggle for air against his shoulder, struggle gently, so as not to harm him, my eyes shut in concentration. The world narrows as I begin to run out of air. Incongruously, a National Geographic documentary appears in my mind. A python is suffocating a small dog then swallowing it whole, its little paws useless, spinning like paddles. Then the self-defence tutorials I watch late at night when I’m drunk in my flat. The girls that scream their war cry. They raise their arms, their legs. A little girl’s silver polka-dot tights. Alanna’s garter sliding up her thigh. Alanna has over a thousand Facebook friends. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Alanna in large round sunglasses, pirouetting down the stairwell at St Peter’s in Rome, and I am watching her, from where I have fallen, where I am lying on my back on the bottom step, my face tilted up to the sun, blood flowing on the white marble stairs, geranium-red. Plié, tendu, pas de bourrée. It’s not you, it’s me, will you ever forgive me? Do you ever listen to a single word I say? Stuart Brandon Pierce slaps my arse over and over: ‘That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl, that’s a good girl.’ Neil’s hand on my throat.

Mr Hancock doesn’t budge. I’m light-headed. My vision blackens. I cannot breathe. My hands can’t find a grip on his hairless shoulder. I choke. He has tucked himself into my shoulder and he turns his head until his lips are on my neck. I can feel the smooth edge of his upper denture rubbing against my skin, the plastic teeth on real human tissue. The dentist pushing wax to the back of my throat. My knees on the bathroom floor, nylon ripping. I shiver. I choke. I’m choking.