The pain which had been intense at the start had dulled to a low throb, and when it was done, Beth was surprised by Bruno’s tenderness as he dabbed at her neck with a disinfected cotton pad. Beyond the site of pain, she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin as he came close to inspect his work. Satisfied, he sat back, and she heard the rip of surgical gloves peeled from his skin and discarded.

‘Come,’ he told her, and led her through into the bedroom where there was a mirror on the wall.

He tugged open the shutter to allow in more light, and then held another, smaller mirror up behind her. In the dimness of the room she surveyed the tattoo reflected back at her through the foxed glass. Along the line of her scar, he had made another line – a slender stem, punctuated with tiny thorns. At the top, near the base of her neck was the head of a rose, petals delicately unfurling. The ink appeared wet, as if a brush of the hand would smudge it.

‘You like it? You are happy?’ he asked her, brisk and curt in his request for approval.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she replied.

This was not altogether a lie. To her untrained eye, there did appear to be a certain artistry. But it seemed alien – the lines so very black and stark against her reddened skin. Something austere and cruel about the spiky little thorns. She had hoped to feel transformed, or even just a bit emboldened, as if the tattoo could protect her, like a carapace, a piece of armour she’d fixed to her person. But instead, she felt a pulse of alarm. The thing was a distortion. It didn’t belong to her and yet it had attached itself to her and there was nothing she could do about it now.

Behind her, Bruno waited. She offered a smile, saying:

‘Really, it’s great. You’re so talented.’

But a guarded, watchful look had come down over his face and the compliment bounced off him, an irrelevance. All at once, she was aware of the bed in the room, blankets collapsing to the floor. Her grey bra, the soft childish folds of her belly above her jeans – she stood with her arms crossed, hands tucked into her armpits.

‘Well, thanks again,’ she said, moving past him back out into the sitting room, where Corinne was reclining on the couch blowing in and out of the latex glove so that it inflated and collapsed like a fingered lung.

Beth picked up her T-shirt, pulled it quickly over her head.

‘Wait. Let me see,’ Corinne said, sitting up and beckoning her with an impatient gesture, fingers wiggling. Dutifully, Beth went to her, bowing her head while Corinne made her inspection.