The problem was, now that Polly knew there was an imminent risk of violence, she couldn’t leave the children unprotected. She told Simone this sensitively but firmly. She could send in a police officer to get them, she said, in fact, that is what she would have to do. But Simone begged her. She didn’t want the police involved. Terry was wily, conniving, clever, he’d find a way to wriggle out of things, he’d get somebody to give him an alibi, or to somehow point the finger at her, he wouldn’t go down. And then he’d come after her. He’d find Dominic. He’d kill them both.

If she was to do this, she didn’t want the police involved. Give her a day, she’d begged Polly. She’d arrange things with Dominic. She’d pack a bag. She’d find a way to take Jasmine. Give her a day.

The woman should not be here. It has only been hours since Simone agreed things with Polly. The bag at least is ready, hastily stuffed while Terry was watching TV, squashed carefully underneath their bed. But the kids are unprepared, and Terry is here. Tomorrow, Thursday, is one of their friend’s birthdays. She has told Terry that the gym has rearranged the rosters so that she has the day off, and he’s thrilled that this means they can go to the pub together. She plans for Jasmine to have a last-minute onset of sickness, for the two of them to need to stay home. Dominic will be at school then, so while Terry’s at the pub, she can pick him up and get him away. She still needs to prepare Dominic for this, but he hasn’t come home yet, and when she tried to talk to him earlier in the week he would barely speak to her. He is angry. With her. He thinks she was out that night, that she abandoned him, again, even after he did his part pretending to Polly, even after they’d seemed to reconnect. He doesn’t know she was there all the time, metres away, strapped to a chair.

Feeling Terry’s hand growing heavier on her waist, Simone grits her teeth. The social worker holds her gaze probingly.

“Bloody bother the neighbours this time, not us,” Simone says boldly, willing the woman to understand the warning look in her eyes. “Tell her, Tel.”

Simone looks behind her to Terry who stares back at her with admiration. “Goodbye,” he says to the social worker, and slams the door in her face. “You fucking stupid goddess,” he whispers in Simone’s ear, lifting her off the floor.

Simone steadies her breath. Eyes she used to think she loved are staring at her with desire. Hands she used to kiss, and cower beneath, are already working their way under her shirt. Every inch of her body tightens, repulsed and nauseated, but she forces another breath, one more breath. One more time. Terry shuts the bedroom door and climbs on top of her.

Simone prays that the woman at the door has understood. She thinks she has. She prays she has. She need only call Polly.