He stood in the hallway, thinking that they must surely be able to hear his heart beating from the top flat. There was a strange smell in the air; a smell that had once wafted up to his and Kirsty’s nostrils. He still couldn’t identify it, but it made him feel ill.

The layout of the flat was the same as those above it: living room and kitchen at the front; bedrooms and bathroom at the back. He opened the door to what he knew must be the main bedroom and squinted into the semi-darkness. This bedroom had patio doors which led into the garden. There was something odd about the room. The curtains were open and the moon shone in, creating a little light. It took him a second, while his eyes adjusted, to realise that the room contained only a single bed.

He must have got it wrong - this must be the spare room. And yet when he opened the other bedroom door he saw that this bedroom too only had a single bed in it. Hanging above the bed were pictures of Chris: huge, blown-up pictures. There were tins of men’s deodorant on the bedside table. Mansize tissues; computer magazines. It was clearly Chris’s bedroom.

He closed the door and looked back into the other bedroom. The walls were blank, painted magnolia, no pictures or posters. There were women’s perfumes, make-up on a dressing table, a hi-fi with large speakers. Lucy’s care assistant uniform hung on the front of the wardrobe.

Separate rooms.

He could imagine Lucy lying alone in this bedroom with her phone, recording him and Kirsty making love. Did she get a thrill out of it? Maybe she masturbated while she did it. Was Chris in the room too? Did they play the recordings back for their own private titillation? He felt angry, all of a sudden.