He pounced on my hesitation, opened his door and before I knew it, was mounting the stairs behind me towards my flat. It was a snap decision to tell him I was redecorating the flat on the back of my windfall. He would otherwise be shocked at the barren interior and perhaps put two and two together; he mustn’t know I was leaving.

‘I see you’ve got an alarm. You didn’t tell me.’

I keyed in the combination, shielding the number code with my spare hand. Once inside, I set my bag on the coffee table and I noticed Oliver had placed a small leather case alongside. I wondered what it contained and suspected he didn’t like to leave valuables in the car.

‘It’s milk and two sugars? I should know by now.’ I spoke too loudly.

We drank our coffees while I sat atop the windowsill, glancing vacantly at the stars through the skylight. Conversation was uneasy.

‘When did you take up photography?’ I asked.

Oliver leant across and picked up his leather case. ‘As I said before, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ A lazy arrogant smile played on his lips. He opened the case and pulled out a couple of large brown envelopes.

‘Perhaps you’d like to see some of my work.’ He motioned for me to sit beside him on the sofa and patted the bare seat. He flicked biscuit crumbs onto the floor and dared me to take up his offer.

The light was on in the bathroom so I played for time by moving to turn it off. Perhaps that was the moment the chain slid across the front door of the flat. I can’t be sure.

I came and sat down on the sofa. Oliver handed me a black and white photograph from a small clutch in his hands. Time stood still as I looked at it. There was a woman, lying in bed, asleep. One of her feet poked out the side and her long blonde hair streamed across the pillow. It didn’t register at first what I was seeing.

‘Do you recognise her?’ The rain was steadily beating against the window and a full moon stared through the skylight. Oliver pushed my hand down and snapped, ‘Look closer. Go on. Take a good look.’

‘Where did you get these?’ There were several more images of the same woman squirming around in sleep. One showed a bare breast exposed to the lens.

It was like a nightmare; a nightmare when you wait for events to unravel, for the horrors to abate so you can wake up. The last picture showed Oliver next to the woman – me – stroking her hair, my hair, and beaming at the camera; victorious.

‘You bastard. How dare you? When did you take these?’