‘As carefully as you can, will you take us through it?’ the barrister prompts. He flicks his eyes to me, then back down at his notes, a hint of irritation beginning to creep in. We could be rattling through this, I am sure he thinks, much more efficiently than we are.

I nod, again. ‘Yes,’ I say. I take a breath and let it out slowly. ‘Okay,’ I say.

‘Shall we start at, say, one o’clock in the morning? Is that right?’

It is as though a trapdoor to hell has opened up in me. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve been through it. Trauma, I guess. Goosebumps break out across my shoulders. Something starts off in my gut, a constant, rhythmic pulsating, like a generator making enough energy in order to release something horrible. I swallow a few times, knowing that everybody’s eyes are on me in the silent courtroom. The silence is weighty now, like before an important press conference or solemn announcement.

I raise my eyes to the barrister but say nothing. The generator is still going, but it’s started to make panic, which sweeps over me like a sandstorm. All our mistakes. Everything we’ve lost. The walls look like they’re tilting.

‘Okay?’ he says. ‘Ms Plant?’

‘Yes, yes, okay,’ I say.

Think. Think. That night. Before. And then after: the strangely calm, methodical days after it, the happy moments, even, until everything fell apart.

I can’t do it. My hands are trembling so much that the jury’s eyes follow them as I reach to tuck my hair behind my ear. ‘Can I – sorry – can I take five?’ I say, directing this question to Jason. He snaps to attention, springing to his feet, my lawyer, my protector.

‘Your Honour, I know I may not have the right to speak but –’ he starts, but the judge waves a hand.

‘Adjourned,’ he says softly. ‘Jury out, please. We’ll break for five minutes, Ms Plant.’

I nod my thanks at him, saying nothing.

Jason comes for me and leads me out to a bench adjoined to the wall of the courtroom. It smells nice out here. Of central heating, of coffee, of that very specific smell people carry on them, having just got out of a warm car in winter. Frost and the synthetic scent of dusty heaters. The comforting stuff of normal life. I can sit and pretend I am here for bad reasons but not horrible ones. A driving offence. An assault, even.

My family haven’t filed out of the courtroom. They’ve chosen to wait in there for me to resume, an expectant, judgemental decision, I think.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jason sits next to me, closer than other lawyers to other clients, I imagine. Tears squeeze at my throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ he says, in the tone of voice I sometimes have to use with Paul when he gets overtired. His voice is low. ‘Technically legally speaking, we shouldn’t talk.’