A smarter person – or a person less in love – would’ve taken that as a warning. She would’ve backed off, or at the very least told him that kind of behaviour was unacceptable. But I didn’t.

I held him, whispering it was okay. I wasn’t interested in anybody except him.

“You’ll never cheat on me, will you?” He held me so tight. It was still affection, I told myself. Even if he was squeezing just a little too hard. He wasn’t threatening me. “I couldn’t handle that, Nat. I’d go insane.”

“Never. I swear.”

He felt freer to express his anger after we were married. We had a chore list which we’d agreed upon, splitting the tasks evenly throughout the week. If Scott missed one of his chores, it was acceptable; work was stressful and he couldn’t summon the motivation to hoover the living room. But if I missed one, he’d look around the flat, sneering, as though any messiness was a personal affront.

“Do you want us to live in a shithole?” he roared one time.

Spinning, he smashed his fist into the wall, caving it in. He tore off the canvas painting and tried to snap it over his knee, failed, then threw it at the wall instead. He strode over to me, his chest heaving, his eyes alight just like they’d been when he burned my notebook.

I cringed away, hating the sound of my voice: small, weak. Not at all like I’d sounded before we got married. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll sort it.”

“You better.”

I didn’t ask him what would happen if I didn’t.

Sometimes, he’d get this look in his eyes after throwing one of his tantrums. As he stared at me, it was like I could hear the flow of his thoughts. Hit her hit her hit her. His fists trembling, a strange twist to his lips – something between a smile and a grimace, as though he was getting excited but wasn’t confident enough yet – he’d walk right up to me. He’d stop. He’d catch himself.

Rage would turn to love, and he’d start crying, holding me and telling me he was sorry.

10

SCOTT

Scott walked across the park.

It was built with one side facing a residential housing estate, the back gardens separated by a stone wall. Scott didn’t envy the people who lived in those houses, where anybody could scale the wall and get access to their property.

One of the things he loved about his house was the privacy, with its tall hedges, detached so no nosy neighbours could get involved in his business.

The hangman’s broken tree was easy to find, right where Harvey had said it would be. A giant with its lower branches twisting through the railing, it looked like a drunken man who’d taken a stumble. Scott waved at a dogwalker as he approached it, trying his best to smile.

He walked around the tree, inspecting the trunk, looking for any signs of a carving.