‘Will this take much longer? This is what I was meaning before—the way females make a fuss, trick you into talk-talk-talking about whatever shit they manufacture in their heads. Look, the point I was making, I’ve got certain skills and I’m … The point is, I’m not a gullible idiot. I’m never gonna let a woman make a fucking fool of me again.’

He made a hissing noise—a kind of sour laugh. Paula turned around in time to see him lift his bandaged right hand off the bed so he could inspect it.

‘You done a decent job? I need this hand. Does it still work?’

He made a strangling gesture with his large meaty hand, bending his fingers to throttle an invisible creature.

Before Paula had a chance to block them, she was slammed by rapid-cut images, like a movie trailer on fast-forward. The crackle of fear in Rochelle’s eyes. The gun in Matt’s hand. Stacey’s hair soaked in blood. Brody’s gaze darting back to his mother again and again, checking. Cameron’s anxious, burdened little face. Poppy curled up against the skirting board. Ferguson’s huge paw around Rochelle’s arm, fingers digging into her flesh like the teeth of an animal trap. The meat of Stacey’s neck where it was torn open. This man’s hand squeezing Rochelle’s throat, squeezing the life out of her.

Then Paula was aware of her body operating on a different kind of automatic pilot. She’d rehearsed it in her mind already, so there seemed to be no decision-making at all as she followed each step of the process.

She picked up the two ampoules, the glass bullets smooth in her hand, twisted off the tops and drew up the liquid into a syringe. As she moved closer to Ferguson, she didn’t dare speak, in case her voice betrayed her.

‘You going to get this finished now? Is this it?’ he asked, so all Paula had to do was make a small murmur of assent for him to stay lying there, still and vulnerable.

She carefully inserted the needle of the syringe and pushed all the adrenaline through the catheter and into the man’s vein. She immediately took a step back, as if to step away from what she’d just done.

Within seconds, Ferguson’s heart rate surged, accelerating, tachycardic. He gulped a breath sharply and wrenched his head around. He swung his torso upright and made eye contact with Paula—his expression surprised, panicky, pleading rather than accusing. But a moment later, he sank flat again, clutching at his chest as his heart was failing him.

Paula slipped the empty glass ampoules and the syringe into the yellow plastic sharps bin. By now, Ferguson was in deep trouble, writhing, breathless, groaning on the examination bed.