‘What the fuck, Eve?’ Rubbing his eyes, he hitched up his waistband, sitting precariously low on his hips, before focusing on my face. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you? Are you hurt? Your face!’

I couldn’t speak of it. Not yet.

He looked me up and down, the front of my shirt blackened from the bin, a gaping hole at the shoulder. Face tear-stained and bloody; I must have looked a fright.

‘Can I have a joint?’ I mumbled.

Ben smoked pot occasionally – medicinally, according to him. He’d dislocated his knee a couple of years ago playing football and every now and then it would get inflamed. Apparently, it was better than any ibuprofen you could buy over the counter, for soothing the flare-ups.

He disappeared into his dark room, a musty smell emanated from within and I stepped back. My stomach threatened to heave, but then he was back at the door handing me a perfectly rolled joint. I was relieved, I wouldn’t have had the first clue how to roll one.

‘Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call someone?’ he asked.

‘I just need to be alone,’ I mumbled, unable to look him in the eyes.

Ben nodded, his face full of concern as he watched me head into the bathroom.

I had to remove every trace of him from me. I filled the bath and double-checked the door was locked before peeling away my clothes, discarding the pile in the corner behind the washing basket. They weren’t to be washed, they were to be burnt, forever tainted. Blood spotted the crotch of my jeans, and I sobbed, unable to tear my eyes away.

The water was as hot as I could stand it. Lowering into the heat, the stinging from below making me wince, I scrubbed until my skin was raw. Erasing every trace of him. But no matter how hard I scoured, the soiled feeling remained.

I flinched as water splashed my face. I’d forgotten about my cheek. Grabbing Ben’s shaving mirror from the sink, I inspected the damage. My cheek was crusted with dried blood and dirt. Tinged yellow from the painted bricks. It hurt like hell but was only a graze. I dabbed at the wound with a flannel until it appeared cleaner and lay submerged as the water grew tepid. I could hear my phone ringing inside my bag; for the fourth time. It had to be Jane, wondering where I was, she would be waiting at the station for me, confused as to why I hadn’t arrived. I needed to answer her.