‘The car’s on London Road. Get her there!’ From the corner of my eye, I could see Karen and Jake standing on the road outside, by the bushes. She looked stooped, devastated, as if she’d aged ten years overnight. I wondered how they would travel home, if they’d have to get the Megabus again, or if they would stay in town. She spotted me, and I saw my name in her mouth. Calling out to me, maybe. Asking for help, or trying to explain herself. Part of me wanted to run to her, take her in my arms like she’d done for me so many times, get her away from all this. But I remembered what the police said about harassment. And what Mike had told me. Having sex in my house. And so I turned my back on her. I remember that very clearly. If I hadn’t, if I’d kept my eye on her or even gone over and asked was she alright, ignored the official advice and just been her friend instead of the wife of the man she’d accused, then maybe what happened next would not have occurred. Maybe everything would be different now.

I was pushing my way along the road to the car, head down, focusing on Cassie and Mike beside me, when I heard the running footsteps. I turned, saw Jake flying at us. I’d never seen him run before. I heard Karen shout something – I don’t know what. I saw what Jake had in his hand.

Mike saw it too, and his instinct, as I think mine would have been, was to protect our child. He threw himself in front of Cassie, and so when Jake reached us, still running fast, sobs trapped in his throat, the knife he was holding went into Mike’s side. I saw the flash of it in the morning sun. I saw the effort it took for Jake to push it in, through the layers of suit and shirt and skin and flesh. It was horrific, and I felt bile in my throat. The knife was sticking out of Mike, red blotting his shirt, and he fell down, putting one hand out to catch himself, then crumpling, as if all the strength had gone from his arm. His head hit the kerb. Jake was shouting, ‘You bastard, you bastard, you hurt my mum, you hurt her . . .’ Cassie was screaming, shielding her dad now, flailing at Jake with her bare hands. The knife was in Mike’s side – and now I recognised it, the black rubber handle. It was my own, one of the Japanese set I kept wicked-sharp. Jake must have taken it from our kitchen.