The tributes soon become overwhelming and I have to put the phone away. But as I lie on the bed, Geoffrey’s face flashes in front of me, his eyes cold, as though with disgust. Then another memory assaults me: the sound of leather smashing against skin, the spurt of blood, the smell of sweat.

My heart starts to race and I sit up, try to remember the calming breathing exercises Anne taught us in the mindfulness session she ran last year. As I exhale I hear voices filtering up from the kitchen.

Jack is home from work. His voice is raised and I can hear Georgie trying to reason with him. They’re talking about me. ‘In bed?’ I hear him say. ‘But it’s the middle of the day. This can’t go on.’

I pull the covers over my head to block out his voice but in the darkness I see Geoffrey lying at the foot of the stairs, his eyes to the ceiling. I throw the covers off, jump up and go to the window. Outside the road is still and peaceful, the afternoon sun casting strange shadows on the walls of the houses across the way.

I can’t allow myself to think of what happened. The sound of Geoffrey gasping for breath as he fought for his life. No, I must wipe it from my mind.

My phone begins to ring on the table next to me. The noise of it makes me jump. I pick it up and look at the screen. It says ‘unknown number’. I answer it, tentatively.

‘Hello?’

There’s a pause, then I hear someone sigh heavily.

‘Hello? Who’s there?’ I say. ‘Who is this?’

There’s another sigh and then whoever it is ends the call.

I stand at the window, holding the phone in my hands, trying to work out who it could have been. Connor? No, because his number would have shown up. It could just have been a sales call, I tell myself, putting the phone back on the table. These things happen all the time but because I’m in a heightened state I’m attaching more significance to it. I have to calm down.

Just then the front door slams. I look out of the window and see Jack storming across the common. Downstairs, I hear Georgie clattering dishes. I turn from the window and slump down on the bed, putting my head in my hands. This is all my fault.

12. Then

January 2018

‘Vanessa. Dinner’s ready.’