“Okay, then.” Isaac collects the beer bottle he’d knocked out of my hands and tosses it into the bin, ignoring the puddle of spilled beer on the floor, then picks up an ashtray from his desk and lies down on the rug. He closes his eyes and stretches himself out like a cat, bathing in the wide, warm triangle of sunlight that streams in through the window. He lies there, perfectly still, for several seconds, then reaches into his shirt pocket for his tobacco tin, opens his eyes and props himself up onto his elbow.

“Want one?” He flips open the tin and tosses a ready-rolled cigarette towards his mouth. He catches it between his lips then nudges the tin towards me.

I don’t even deliberate. I take out the lighter and a cigarette, light it, and then offer the flickering flame to Isaac. He puts a hand on mind and guides the flame closer to his cigarette. The tip sparks orange and he lets go of my hand. The weight of his touch remains, the imprint of his fingers still warm on my skin.

“Thanks.” I puff on my cigarette, drop the lighter back into the tin, close the lid and nudge it across the rug towards him.

Isaac exhales slowly then nods towards his shirt pocket, indicating that I should put the tin back in there. I shake my head.

“Why did you attack me like that?”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“No? So you didn’t knock me off my chair and hold me down?”

He looks at me lazily, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Why do you think I did that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

I shift away from him and lean back against the wall, taking another puff on my cigarette. He’s playing games with me.

“Why are you so afraid to get angry, Emma?”

“I’m not.”

“Someone taught you to suppress your anger. Who was it?”

I exhale slowly, aiming the smoke towards the motes at the window. They twirl violently as it engulfs them.

“No one taught me. I’m not an angry person.”

“I disagree.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.”

“Really? It’s all very well being, as you call it, a ‘people pleaser’, someone you think people want you to be, but, when faced with real jeopardy, your true character is exposed. I saw that yesterday, after Frank attacked you. The person I talked to in the hut, that was the real you.”

I take another puff on my cigarette. “We didn’t do arguments in my house, growing up. We’d run off to our rooms to sulk instead. There was a lot of running off to other rooms in my house. We never slammed the doors, though. If you were going to sulk, you had to do it silently.”

“Then what would happen?”