You see, I made a point – in fact, I made it a point of pride – to visit every couple who applied for the pouch when we started working with the general public. It was so important to make sure that it wasn’t misused. We had a duty to make sure. I had done all this for women, you understand; I wanted to help women. And so we didn’t give it out to just anyone, far from it.

I expected their doorbell to play a tune, and so the way it rang like an old-fashioned alarm made me jump – loud, jangling, clashing notes. I pulled my finger away fast but the noise seemed to resonate. I could hear voices but not words, and then the door was answered.

I took them both in with a sweep of my eyes – she stood in front of him, holding the door, smiling nervously, and he stood behind, a possessive hand on her shoulder. Her hair was light brown with a slight auburn sheen. His was blond, very blond, with pale eyelashes and a scattering of pale freckles to match.

That is one of the images I have, of that visit – the visit that changed everything for me. The clasp of her hand on the door frame. The way I knew, at first sight of her, that she was afraid. That he was dangerous. Also, a pot decorated with Chinese dragons in the hall.

Their sofa was pale, plush cream leather – it looked untouched.

I sat on it and sank.

He sat in the large chair opposite me, pulled it close.

She sat on the chair in the corner, with her hands neatly folded on her lap. Her face looked darkened now, particularly around one eye, one cheekbone, and I wondered whether it was coming from a shadow or a bruise beneath her perfect make-up.

I had never found it difficult to start the informal interview before but I did then. His face seemed big to me, it blocked out hers – the more I tried to focus on her expression the more I could only see his. I needed to ask them why they wanted to use the pouch. I needed to know how they would use the pouch. He answered my questions, and he answered them well. But she said not a word.