Annie stood at the living room window. She’d peed herself. Which was fine. People did that when they were really, really scared. She had noticed it while making the call. Her hands had been shaking badly. They still were. God, that woman, the stuff she’d said to her. She’d punched her. She’d squeezed her arm in a vice-like grip trying to drag her away and force her into the open door of the van. There was a big blue mark on her arm.

Jesus, how could Mark still be out there? But there he was, in those comical shorts, so confident as if in some alternative reality where a skinny weakling could actually win a fight against a maniac with a knife. Wait. He is holding a cricket bat, shouting something down at the woman, who is on her knees, like those blindfolded prisoners in a video shot by ISIS. Mark, don’t, she whispered. For months afterwards she had nightmares in which Mark sent the woman’s head for a six. She was screaming his name from the living room window, but nothing was coming out. He swung the bat round over his head and down. Then the woman had no head.

Sometimes she’d wake up crying from the dream about Mark. The last time, Mum and Dad were quickly there at her bedside, telling her that’s not how it was. Remember, Annie? How did it happen? Say it. Say it out loud.

I ran outside, she said. I shouted.

That’s right, Dad said.

You shouted. Shouted like a real champion.

And what did Mark do? Mum said.

He put down his cricket bat, she said.

That woman was trying to do a very bad thing to you, Dad said.

But it could have been worse. So much worse, but Mark was brave hitting and frightening her with his cricket bat, Mum said.

But because both of you were brave, Dad said, it wasn’t so bad.

You were so good, Mum said.

You are beautiful, Dad said.

I never saw Mark again.