‘Whose flat is this?’ I ask, at last, as if it has only just occurred to me. In truth, I’ve been racking my brains since I woke up. As for my suited saviour – I don’t even know his name.

He turns round, and sneers. ‘You don’t remember?’

I say nothing.

‘We met in bar. You were with other men. I helped you. This place…’ He sighs. ‘My brother owns this place. It’s not nice place, but you said no hotel.’

‘What about your place?’

He holds up his left hand, and his gold ring sparkles in the sun.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter. I’m about to say more, but he’s already in the car. I climb into the passenger seat, and I’m considering asking him more questions, when his phone rings.

He hesitates for a moment, then swears under his breath and picks up the phone. I look out of the window as he starts the car and pulls out of the gravel driveway, yammering away on his phone in rapid-fire Russian. I don’t pick up any of the words, but the tone is clear, from the tinny voice on the other end, someone – a female – isn’t happy. He ends the call then throws the phone into the central console, accelerating onto the main road, swerving around other cars. They are all driving too fast, weaving in and out, and I feel a wave of nausea hit me again. I swallow back bile and cling on to the seat.

Maybe it would do everyone a favour if I died right now.

I consider grabbing the steering wheel and ploughing us into the path of a lorry, and the thought of it triggers a memory that I’ve tried hard to supress.

Six months before. Pondicherry, India. Faded French colonial grandeur with hordes of people sleeping rough in the middle of the streets. So pretty, everyone told me. Fine if you don’t go out alone. Don’t go out at night. It had been fascinating watching how people travelled around there – open-backed trucks stuffed full with men, old British cars, clapped out but still full of charm. Tuk-tuks. Motorcycles with Mum, Dad and Junior piled on top – only the driver wearing a helmet. I’d told Michael that I didn’t want to go on the back of the ancient, whiny little scooter, so he’d forced me to drive it instead.