“That’s it,” he says as I stop fighting. He holds me tightly for several seconds then slowly lets go of me and angles me so he’s standing with his back to the door and I’m in front of him. The door is ajar behind him, a sliver of sunrise lifting the gloom of the hut. “Are you calm now?”

I nod but my hands are clenched at my sides.

“Light the candle.” He hands me a lighter and watches as I turn and light the large white church candle on the table to my right.

As the gloom lifts, he pulls his T-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor.

He looks at me steadily, almost daring me to glance away. His chest, his arms and his stomach are striped with scars – thick, thin, long, short, raised, flat. There isn’t a patch of skin on his upper torso that hasn’t been cut, slashed, hacked or carved. So that’s why he wouldn’t let me take his T-shirt off when we had sex.

“Are you shocked?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Would you believe me if I told you it didn’t hurt? Because it didn’t, you know.” He takes a step closer to me and reaches for the string at the waist of my cotton shorts.

“I’ll do it,” I say, untying the string and slipping my shorts down to the floor. I step out of them, picking them up and keeping the ball of material scrunched up in my hand.

“It’s a natural progression,” Isaac says, dropping to his knees and pushing my knickers to my ankles. “Once you’ve lost your attachments to people and things, the next step is to learn how to detach from your own body. It’s incredible” – he kisses my belly – “to be able to mentally overcome pain. Absolutely incredible. You’ll be blown away, Emma, by how much your mind can accomplish.”

His lips travel from my stomach to my hipbone then to the top of my thigh.

I fumble with my balled-up shorts, searching for the knife. They feel too soft, too yielding. Where is it? Did it fall out when I was trying to get away from Isaac outside? I partially unfold the shorts but there’s nothing but soft cotton in my hands.

“Before the pain, a little pleasure.” Isaac plunges his fingers inside me and I stumble to my right, smacking the shorts against the table as I try to keep my balance. The fruit knife slips from the bundle of material and clatters onto the surface. It spins round and round in slow motion.

Isaac looks up. His eyes widen as he spots the knife, and he reaches a hand towards the table.