She kissed him. ‘It’s OK. Just be careful.’

They finished dressing and Jamie picked up his keys. They left a light on but drew the curtains. It was only seven but it was pitch-black outside. They headed out towards the front door.

Jamie patted his pockets. ‘Shit, I haven’t got my wallet.’

Kirsty tutted. ‘Better go and get it then – I don’t want to end up doing the washing up. Give me the key and I’ll go and get in the car.’

He handed her the key and went back into the flat to find his wallet.

Kirsty opened the front door – hey, no squeak! Chris must have oiled it well – and was hit by a blast of icy air. No cloud cover, she decided, remembering an ancient geography lesson. She stepped down from the doorstep onto the path, and her foot made contact with something slippery.

The world dropped away.

Afterwards, she couldn’t remember if she had screamed or not. She must have, the way Jamie came running. She remembered that he had yelled her name. His voice was strangely high-pitched; he sounded like a woman.

Kiirrst…

Her right foot touched the path, but it was like an ice rink. That was her first thought: ice. Like the air. Like the weather. But it wasn’t ice. It was oil. A patch of oil left behind by Chris; a patch of the same oil that made the door sound so nicely squeak-free.

…tiiieee.

Her right foot slipped away from her, and to stop herself doing the splits she instinctively pulled her left leg forward. As she did this, she twisted – twisted right round so she was facing the door. And as she twisted she pitched forward, her hands trying to grab the doorframe – but she had her bag in one hand and the keys in the other. She twisted, pitched forward and fell.

Smack.

Her belly hit the concrete step.

Jamie sat outside the operating theatre, Heather beside him, holding his hand. Heather was wearing her nurse’s uniform. She was still meant to be working.

Jamie couldn’t stop shaking.

He had come running out of the flat, shouting her name. He had seen it happen: seen it even though he was inside the flat; her scream conjuring up a clear image. The slip, spin, smack. Her hands were full of objects and no use in stopping her from falling, or lessening the impact as she hit the concrete. Hard.

She had looked up at him, her eyes watery with pain. ‘My…’

He expected her to say ‘stomach’.

She said, ‘My baby.’

The wait for the ambulance. The ride across town, sirens cutting through the night. Onto a trolley, down the corridor.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

‘She’s going to be alright,’ Heather said. ‘I can feel it. She’s going to be alright. She’s going to be–’

‘Mr Knight?’