Then she woke, took a breath sharp enough to push Fergus’ chest from her back, and every muscle in her body seized. She jolted, but he’d been ready for it. He squeezed his arm around her, dragging her backwards into him, snaking his free hand under her neck and over her mouth.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Angela, you have to trust me. I’m not here to hurt you.’

She tried kicking, going for his shins with her heels, but the sheet hampered the force of her movements, and Fergus shifted his right leg on top of both of hers. Her breath was hot and wet in his hand, and her head was a wild creature whipping left and right. He waited it out. There were no surprises. He’d played the scenario out in his head hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. In his pocket was a handkerchief, and on it was a carefully measured dose of chloroform. There were things he wanted to do with Angela, and those things required her not to fight him. Fergus wanted her pristine.

‘Let it out,’ he said. ‘I know you’re scared and confused, but I chose you.’

Angela heaved forwards, rolling her mouth hard onto his fingers and biting down. Fergus tried to keep his grip on her, but his hand betrayed him. His fingers shot out straight and his wrist flicked backwards, giving Angela the space to bend her head forwards then smack it backwards into Fergus’ face, the rear of her skull a true weapon, splitting Fergus’ nose from between his eyes to below the bridge. The pillow became a mess of bloodied hair. He couldn’t see, and his face was a mask of agony. Only his right arm and leg remained steadfast, holding her in place. She spat, and a chunk of something warm and soft landed on his hand as he pinned her to the bed. The flesh was from his finger, he realised as he rolled her onto her back and slid his body on top of hers before she could attempt an escape.

‘’S all righ’, lemme help you,’ he muttered.

Blood droplets from his face burst juicily as they hit hers. Angela began to sob.

‘I’m not cross. Don’t cry,’ Fergus said.

Fergus pulled the handkerchief from his pocket with his right hand, shifting his left forearm to rest solidly across her breastbone. She gushed air.

‘Please don’t …’

‘Hurt you? Why would I? I’m your one true love, Angela.’

He pressed the handkerchief to her lips. A cotton kiss in the dark. Angela’s hips bucked beneath him, and he imagined a different bed, her holding him, wanting him on top of her.