I have guessed that Liam has been lying to me about his career. I should have figured it out sooner, but now it’s obvious he has no job to go to. I don’t know if he ever had one, or if he was even a detective at all. Did he lie to me? I imagine he plucked the profession out of the ether, knowing that him being a detective would lull me into a false sense of security. I wonder, too, if he pretended to work for the police in order to later scare me into submission. How can you report a policeman for domestic violence?

I know he killed my mother. And I know he killed Tiger too. How can I have ignored for so long something that was staring me in the face?

I have been such a fool that if I wasn’t so numb, I would die from shame. And I think, because of that, I am able to hold it back; to confine it in some far recess of my mind which I can ignore. I cannot face it. Not yet and maybe not ever. I try to tell myself that he’s fooled everyone, not just me. He’s a consummate actor – he charms everyone he meets, hiding the real Liam from the world. The real Liam is a monster, but he keeps that monster concealed. I do my best not to antagonise the monster. I don’t want to wake him.

At first, I maintain a completely blank expression, but then, after he tells me I’m a miserable bitch, I learn how to fake a smile. Very quickly I come to realise that If I smile, speak only when spoken to, and never argue with him, criticise him or ask questions, I am safe.

After two weeks, the bruises are mostly gone, and those that remain can be covered by clothes or make-up. Liam praises me for looking so lovely and slender and takes a renewed interest in my body. I lie there, stiff as a corpse, my bruised body aching anew. I close my eyes and pray for it to be over each night. Each time his lips brush one of my bruises I gasp, but he thinks it’s in pleasure. I worry about getting pregnant, as he’s stopped using protection, but I don’t bring it up as I don’t want to risk an argument.