‘I’m sorry,’ I say, putting my hand to my chest as I attempt to get my breath back. ‘It was just so hot … and the sight of the blood, it –’

‘Come on,’ he says, his voice gentle now. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’

The last thing I want to do is eat but Connor is insisting.

‘I know a lovely little Spanish place near here,’ he says as we take a right off the high street and continue down a small mews. ‘Damian took me when I last met up with him. You’ll like it. The food’s great.’

I try to explain to him that I’m feeling ill, that I can’t get rid of the image of that poor young guy being literally torn apart right in front of me, but he won’t listen.

‘What you need is something to line your stomach,’ he says as we approach the glass doors of the restaurant. ‘You came here straight from work during rush hour. That’s why you’re feeling funny.’

He turns to me and flashes a smile. This would usually melt me but this evening, in the light of what I’ve just witnessed, his smile seems grotesque.

‘Okay, but I don’t want to stay out late,’ I say as we walk up the steps. ‘Just eat and then go home. I need to rest.’

‘Christ, you sound like an old woman, Ness,’ he says as we enter the bar. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure gone?’

I don’t understand what’s going on here. Connor’s never spoken to me like this before. But then, I realize, I’ve never really said no to him before.

‘Hey, guys. Table for two?’

A tall, olive-skinned woman with striking brown eyes and glossy black bobbed hair greets us at the door. I watch as Connor flashes her the same smile he just used on me a couple of minutes ago as she leads us to a candlelit table by the bar.

‘So what can I get you?’ she says, talking directly to Connor as though I don’t exist. ‘Some drinks to start?’

‘A menu would be great,’ says Connor as she pulls out a chair for him to sit. ‘And a bottle of Rioja.’

‘Sure,’ she says, returning the flirtatious stare as she walks back to the bar.

‘A small glass would have been enough for me,’ I say, sitting down at the table, opposite him. ‘Not a bottle.’

‘That’s fine,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I’ll drink the rest. Look, Vanessa, what is this?’ His voice is loud and brittle.

‘What’s what?’ I say, sweat gathering on my forehead.

‘This anger,’ he says, leaning forward in his chair. ‘You’re totally wired, for some reason.’