‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said as he began undoing the button of his fly.

‘Eve. Eve!’ Ben’s face was above mine and I thrashed in my duvet. ‘Wake up.’ I could hear screaming, but it took a few seconds to realise the noise was coming from me.

I slumped back onto my pillow panting. Ben sat on the edge of the bed holding his cheek.

‘It was a nightmare.’

He threw me an incredulous look. ‘I guessed! Jesus, you’ve got a good right hook,’ he grumbled and disappeared out of the room.

My T-shirt was damp and cold, hair slicked flat to my head. It was freezing, and I reached for my dressing gown, still half asleep. It was the third nightmare I’d had in a week. Every time I tried to sleep, I saw his cold eyes drilling into me.

Ben reappeared in the doorway with a bag of oven chips pressed against the side of his face. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so broken.

‘How did you get in?’ I asked, scratching my head.

He pointed to the bolt lock that was swinging from the wall, two of its four screws in Ben’s hand. He’d forced entry to my room? My mouth went dry. Ben wouldn’t hurt me though? Would he?

‘I’ll make some tea,’ he offered.

It was before seven, my alarm wasn’t due to go off for another half an hour. Ben must have just got home. Seeing him in various stages of undress had become normal, but when I entered the kitchen he was fully clothed in jeans and a hoody. Had he been to work? He placed a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal in front of me.

‘What happened to the chair?’ Ben asked, nodding towards the broken pieces of wood stacked in the corner of the kitchen.

I rolled my eyes and continued to push cereal around my bowl. I was still reeling about the lack of progression on my case, much of it down to my own stupidity, but I didn’t want to talk to Ben about it now. I didn’t want to go to work either, but I had to. Everything was so unfair.

‘We had a falling-out.’

Ben didn’t respond. Perhaps, ascertaining from my tone, it would be wise to leave it there.

‘Maybe you should go and see your doctor? About the nightmares, I mean. Maybe you’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder. You could get some meds for that.’ The idea sounded tempting, floating around all day, away with the fairies. Although I wasn’t sure that’s exactly what Ben, or Jane, meant when they suggested I go and see a doctor.

‘I might do,’ I replied, and Ben seemed pleased he’d mentioned it. He sat on the kitchen counter to eat his cereal. ‘I’ll replace the chair today,’ I added.