‘No,’ he says, ‘But I know the images are doing something to me. People are always telling me they will. I thought I was perfect for the job. I saw lots of things growing up and I’m not soft or anything but … maybe it is getting to me.’

Dark hair, broken and bloody on the floor of this room. I have dark hair. Joe is looking down at his hands again. When I first met him, I had to research the conditions associated with this role. Most people can’t work in social media content moderation for more than a couple of years, and many will experience post-traumatic stress and a host of other debilitating mental conditions. That’s what was so fascinating about him: he has never shown signs of PTSD and has few anxiety issues. He’s got a mild drinking problem, smartphone addiction and other common twenty-first century ailments, but he’s generally well adjusted. He even felt genuine guilt when he found someone’s phone on a train and took it home, thinking he might keep it. Eventually the owner realised they’d lost it, called the number and arranged to pick it up. But now, he’s dreaming horrible scenes, which means he’s probably been disassociating, hiding his interior world from his daytime life.

It is completely unfair that people are forced into this sort of work to make a living, a pittance, really, compared to the emotional turmoil they suffer. Joe is one of the lucky ones who gets some support; in other parts of the world workers have none.

I have to ask the question. ‘Joe, have you ever had an urge to hurt anyone?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not for years.’

‘So you have in the past?’

‘Just road rage, angry at other fans at the footy, that sort of thing. I never really hurt anyone back then.’

Back then.

‘Do you think you need time off, maybe? A week or so away to reset.’

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I’ll be fine. If I ever have trouble sleeping, I’ve found taking a drive helps. If I go for a decent drive, fill the car up or just roll through the city, it makes me sleepy and when I get home and have a whisky I nod off straight away.’

‘Do you think that’s safe, driving when you’re already tired?’

‘Roads are quiet, it beats just lying in bed at home.’ He coughs then, loud and sudden as a rifle shot. He covers his mouth with a fist, then thumps his chest.

I pause a moment, sipping my water. Then I hold out the tissues to him but he waves them away.

‘I’m fine,’ he says, still breathless.

I glance down at my notes. ‘If you’re on your phone before bed, it can speed your mind up, make it hard to sleep. Do you think maybe you could try reading for half an hour instead?’