‘I need to go now,’ I say. He’s blocking me, and even though we’re about the same height and I probably outweigh him, his dream scared me so thoroughly that I can’t bring myself to go any closer to him. I try to turn on my bodycam so everything he might do will be on record, but the stupid firmware is in the middle of an upgrade and won’t load. Fuck.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve hit the yellow warning button on my emergency link to O.

O’s voice comes straight into my head, a sleepy growl. ‘Problem? Turn on your bodycam, I can’t see.’

‘Arsehole client blocking me in bathroom.’ I’m not good at carrying on internal conversations without giving away what I’m doing. Martin must notice that I’m talking to someone because he steps back with a flickering look of offended honour even as O responds.

‘Throw a glass of water on him, darling. Shower hose. Flying headbutt. Do what you must.’

Flying headbutts are Shandy’s department, not mine. I shrug past Martin without saying anything and grab the door handle.

‘It’s only three-ish,’ he says smoothly as I open the door. ‘I booked you until eight. Just need a little time to recover, you see.’

Now I’m out in the hallway, on CCTV and with O in my ear, I feel bolder. I turn back and square up.

‘I don’t do deathporn. I don’t do gratuitous dismemberment. I’m a therapist.’ My voice is shaking and I’m wanting to hurl again. If only I still had something in my stomach, maybe I could hit his feet.

He acts shocked. ‘You must be joking, you don’t do deathporn? You have a great talent for it. You know, I could smell everything—’

I let the door go and stride fast for the lift. Head feels like it’s being squeezed in one of those machines that you put a minivan in and press a button and get out a little chunk of metal the size of a pepper shaker. He doesn’t seem to be following me, but by now I’m staggering.

‘Are you safe, darling? Should I send Muz?’

‘Yes, please, O.’

Muz is a bouncer for a club in Soho. He’s approximately eighteen metres tall and made of titanium. He and O are both motorbike aficionados, and he takes care of her ‘hog’ for her. He would squash Martin Elstree like a gnat.

‘Where shall I have him meet you? Room eight-nineteen or the lobby?’

‘O, I’m sorry, I think I’m going to fall asleep in public.’

‘Don’t do that. Put on a bit of Anthrax or something.’

I hit the button for the lift and lean on the wall. The hallway is empty and it seems to stretch on for ever into the distance. Like a dream hallway. So tired. My headache has moved into my wisdom teeth, which I was supposed to have removed last year but I was dating Antonio and couldn’t face the chipmunk-cheek after-effects, and . . .