It crossed her mind to argue, point to the food she’d bought, but she knew better. Instead, she folded her arms around herself, nodded, and turned her gaze to the floor.

“Don’t disappear like that on me again,” he said, placing his hands on her upper arms. He bent at the knees so he could look up at her. “I was worried, that’s all. You could’ve fallen in the river for all I knew. Just let me know next time. All right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll see you later.”

He kissed her forehead and left her there.

Sara closed her eyes and listened to the front door close, the BMW’s ignition, the tyres on the gravel. Then screeching silence. The fingers of her left hand crept inside her right sleeve, found the bare, smooth flesh of her forearm.

She knew she shouldn’t. She had promised she wouldn’t do it again.

But she had to.

Her nails dug into the skin. Bitten and stubbed as they were, they gripped and scratched. Brilliant pain flooded her mind, forcing out all else. The nails travelled along her skin, leaving bright streaks behind like comet trails. She scratched and dug until she could stand it no more.

But it was not enough.

She rolled up the sleeve of the hoodie Damien had given her that morning, brought her forearm to her mouth, and closed the flesh between her teeth. Lightning-bright pain, scorching and beautiful, a firebrand on her skin. She held the flesh there between her teeth for as long as she could bear, until the tears streamed from her eyes and damped her forearm.

But it was not enough.

Before the idea had fully formed, she reached for the plastic milk bottle on the island. It exploded on the floor, white liquid blooming across the stonework in firework patterns, splashing on her legs. Then she lifted the box of eggs, raised them over her head, cried out as she hurled it at the floor. Shell and yolk and white scattered through the milk. Finally, she swept the bag along with the rest of the groceries from the island’s worktop. Loose peppers and apples rolled against the cupboards.

When it was done, and reason had returned, Sara wept.

It took her two hours to clean the floor, the walls of the island, the cupboard doors, first mopping up the milk and egg yolks, then sweeping up the shells, and finally scrubbing the cracks in the stone. She had salvaged what she could of the food, cleaning whatever had been in contact with the floor, and stored it all away. She paused now and then, the hard edge of reality coming into view. The madness of what she’d done.