He took a deep breath at the sound of her voice, wanting nothing more than to hold her right now, but he was still frozen in place, his body taking time to catch up to the fact that his attackers weren’t back.

She banged on the door again.

‘Coming,’ he said before he had time to think.

His primary concern right now was making sure she didn’t get suspicious. If he didn’t open the door there would be questions he didn’t want to answer. He put the knife on the counter and walked to the front door, wiping his wet cheeks before touching the handle. He pushed past every feeling inside that wanted to keep the door closed and stay locked in here for ever.

He opened the door.

Imogen took one look at him and a flash of annoyance passed across her face.

‘One of those nights, was it?’ she asked as she took in his appearance. ‘You could have answered your phone. I’ve been worried sick.’

She had obviously assumed that he had got into a fight on purpose; it wouldn’t be the first time. If anything, it was a perfect cover for him. Having bruises or cuts on his face was nothing new. No one would ask many questions.

‘Sorry, I don’t feel well.’

He held onto the door, partly to hold his broken body upright, partly blocking her passage into the house. He didn’t want company.

Imogen reached forwards to place her hand on his forehead and he involuntarily flinched backwards. She ignored him and continued.

‘You are a bit warm. You don’t look right.’

‘I’m just going to sleep it off. I’ll be fine.’

He tried to say the things that would make her go away.

‘Are you still annoyed? Is that what this is? I said I was sorry,’ Imogen said.

‘No, I’m not annoyed at all. I just feel terrible,’ Adrian said.

He desperately wanted her to leave, but he knew if he said that then she would push her way in. He was surprised she hadn’t already. At the same time, he didn’t want to be alone, either. He just wanted to be asleep, unconscious, dead.

‘Let me in; I’ll make you some soup,’ Imogen said.

He didn’t want a confrontation and so he let her through. He didn’t know his own mind anymore. He felt weak.

Imogen walked past him into the kitchen. By the time Adrian had followed her inside, she had a tin of soup out and was emptying it into a bowl.

‘I’m going to go back to bed,’ Adrian said, looking at the dining chair, not wanting to sit on it, knowing that he couldn’t.

‘I’ll bring your soup up when it’s done.’