‘Yep, cut my finger that’s all.’ I heard him mutter. ‘Fucking lemons.’

I lifted the lid of the box and froze. The balaclava stared out at me accusingly, eyes slashed. I tried to move, but I was rigid, unable to take my eyes off the black woollen mask. If I wanted proof that Ian was a monster, here it was. I tried to stand, to run, but my joints locked. I was paralysed.

‘Eve,’ Ian called.

My heart was in my mouth. I moved my lips to speak but nothing came out. I didn’t have enough time. Any second now he would poke his head around the door and I would be found knee deep in his box of tricks. Game over.

‘Eve!’ Ian shouted.

Forcing my legs to work, I clambered up, tipping the contents of the box into my handbag and slipping it back under the table. In the kitchen, Ian was by the sink, holding his thumb under the tap. The water diluted the blood that dripped onto the steel below.

‘Shit, I didn’t realise it was so bad.’

‘It’s not, but can you grab me some kitchen towel? There’s plasters in the drawer, I think.’

I ripped a few sheets off the roll and held them out to Ian. Saving a sheet for myself to open the drawer. It was a mess, a mixture of phone chargers, batteries, measuring tape, tealights and matches. The plasters were at the back. I grabbed one, peeling the film off as he held his hand out to me. Blood was still oozing from his finger. I cringed for a second but successfully wrapped two plasters around his thumb. Hoping that would stop the bleeding. Then I rinsed the knife and placed it back on the tray.

‘Thanks,’ he said, leaning in for a kiss. My throat constricted.

I can’t do this. I really can’t do this. Faced with the reality I couldn’t believe I ever thought I could. I needed to get some air. My chest was wound tight like a spring.

‘Let me carry this in.’ I picked up the tray and carried it to the coffee table. Before slicing his finger, Ian had filled the tray with almost everything we needed to mix our gin and tonics.

‘I’ll get the ice,’ he called from the kitchen.

‘I’m just going to use the bathroom,’ I called back. He wouldn’t check the box, would he? There was nothing I could do. I scooped my bag from where I’d left it and locked the door behind me. Sitting on the toilet, my chest felt like it was in a vice, slowly compressing. I tried to concentrate but my head swam. I needed to get out of here. No, I had to stick to the plan. I put my head between my knees, gasping for air. I couldn’t breathe.