Despite the day’s action, and her enduring conviction that power must be reclaimed, Veronica couldn’t escape the dark feeling of dread that crept into her as soon as she was inside this house, near to Terry. He was there now, probably, a matter of feet and bricks away, so close that she could almost smell him. When she’d come in, she had set the house alarm immediately, and the panic button sat now on the coffee table next to her, but how quickly could the police respond?

Veronica took a sip of her water and let the cold liquid run through her. Perhaps she was being overdramatic. Perhaps Terry wasn’t as volatile as she was imagining. It was possible that the previous night’s rage had been exaggerated by the simple fact of his having been drunk. Perhaps he didn’t even remember it. Perhaps he wouldn’t care that she’d been in his flat that afternoon. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that she and George might snitch. Perhaps he wasn’t even home. Veronica was relatively certain, however, that he was home. Although she hadn’t yet heard him, when she’d arrived at the house – locking up her bike, finding her key – she’d had a strange, compelling sense of being watched. It’s a specific feeling that, not easily confused. She’d looked up and found the neighbours’ curtains drawn, but who knew if somebody was peering out from behind them.

Veronica took another long, measured sip of the icy water. It could have been Dominic looking. Or little Jasmine.

Her upper lip tingled. Although the water was helping, without a breeze, she was still far too hot, and like a muscle memory, recollections of Kenya percolated her pores. By the coast, it had been especially humid, but at least there had been fans. And open windows. She had never felt afraid there – different, conspicuous, but not afraid. Setting down her glass, Veronica reached for the window blind; if she couldn’t open the glass, at least she could shut out the evening sun. On the street outside, she noticed a handsome young couple, arms interlinked; there was an elderly lady pushing a floral shopping trolley, eggs balanced sensibly on top; and a middle-aged man in a suit. Nobody threatening, nobody ominous. For a moment, Veronica felt foolish in her obsessive overthinking. Irrational, and weak. But the very next moment, standing there framed by the window, once again there came that overwhelming sense of being observed, surveyed, scrutinised. With sudden, defiant impulse, Veronica had a thought to throw open the glass and crane her neck into the muggy air. Let them look – she could look back. Why should she cower? Why should she be afraid? The power was hers to take.

She almost did it. Almost. But in the end, she pulled hastily at the blind, and once closed, encased it further in the white wooden shutters she and George had so carefully had restored.

In semi-darkness, she sat on the sofa, a brief memory of another time flitting across her eyes – another room dimly lit and sealed in wood, though she had not felt trapped then, but liberated. She should feel liberated now. It was ridiculous to feel so vulnerable. She wanted to shake herself. That was what Dr Shirazi had been getting at though, wasn’t it? The fear? That’s what she had to confront and let out: the ways in which she, and George, were not all-powerful, were not able to control the world around them, and how this failure had rocked their confidence, rocked their cores, rocked the foundations of everything.