This time the silence drags on for a whole minute.

Are you managing to eat properly? she adds.

For some reason I’ve confided in Carol that I used to have an eating disorder. Well, used to is a relative term because as anyone who’s ever had one knows, it never really goes away and it’s when things get shaken up and out of control that it threatens to come back.

Si’s making me eat, I say. I’m fine.

I don’t tell her that sometimes I dirty a plate and put it in the sink so Simon thinks I’ve eaten when I haven’t, or that sometimes I make myself throw up after we’ve been out. Some parts of my life are off-limits. Actually it’s one of the things I used to like about Simon, the way he’d look after me when I was ill. The problem is, when I’m not ill, his being all attentive and caring drives me crazy.

I didn’t do anything, I say suddenly. When they broke in. That’s what I can’t understand. I was literally shaking with adrenaline. It’s meant to be fight-or-flight, isn’t it? But I didn’t do either. I did nothing.

For no particular reason, I’m crying now. I pick up one of Carol’s cushions and hold it against myself, hugging it to my chest, as if by squeezing it I can somehow squeeze the life out of the little shits.

You did do something, she says. You played possum. As an instinct, that’s perfectly valid. It’s like hares and rabbits—rabbits run, hares crouch. There’s no right or wrong response in these situations, no what-if. There’s just whatever happened.

She leans forward and edges a box of tissues closer to me across the coffee table. Emma, I want to try something, she says when I’ve finished blowing my nose.

What? I say dully. Not hypnosis. I’ve told you I won’t do that.

She shakes her head. This is something called EMDR, Eye Movement Desensitization and Retraining. It can seem a slightly strange process at first, but it’s actually very straightforward. I’m going to sit beside you and move my fingers from side to side across your field of vision. I want you to track them with your eyes while you relive the traumatic experience in your mind.

What’s the point of that? I say doubtfully.

The truth is, she says, we don’t know exactly how EMDR works. But it seems to help people work through what happened, to give them a sense of perspective. And it’s particularly helpful in cases like this, where someone’s unable to remember the details of what happened. Are you willing to give it a try?

All right, I shrug.

Carol moves her chair so she’s a couple of feet from me and holds up two fingers.

Concentrate on a visual image from the beginning of the breakin, she says. Keep it static for now, though. Like when you pause a movie.

She starts to move her fingers from side to side. Obediently, I follow them. That’s it, Emma, she says. And now let the movie start. Remember how you felt.

It’s hard to concentrate at first, but as I get used to the movement of her fingers, I can focus enough to replay the night of the breakin in my mind.

A thud in the sitting room.

Footsteps.

Whispers.

Me getting out of bed.

The door crashing open. The knife in front of my face—

Deep breaths, Carol murmurs, just like we practiced.

Two, three deep breaths. Me getting out of bed…

The knife. The intruders. The argument between the two of them, terse and urgent, as to whether my presence meant they should get the hell out of there or go ahead and rob the flat anyway. The older one, the one with the knife, gesturing at me.

Skinny bird. What’s she gonna do?

Breathe, Emma. Breathe, Carol instructs.

Touching his knife against the base of my throat. ’Cos if she does try something, we’ll cut her, right?

No, I say sharply, panicked. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.

Carol sits back. You’ve done very well, Emma. Well done.

I breathe some more, getting back my composure. I know from previous sessions it’ll be up to me to break the silence now. But I don’t want to talk about the burglary anymore.

We may have found somewhere else to live, I say.

Oh yes? Carol’s voice is as neutral as ever.

Simon’s flat’s in a really horrible area. Even before I made the crime figures worse. I bet the neighbors hate me. I’ve probably knocked five percent off the value of their homes.

I’m sure they don’t hate you, Emma, she says.

I put the sleeve of my sweater into my mouth and suck at it. An old habit I seem to have started again. I say, I know moving’s giving in. But I can’t stay there. The police say with this sort of attacker, there’s a chance they’ll come back. They get a sense of ownership, apparently. Like you’re somehow theirs now.

Which you’re not, of course, Carol says quietly. You are your own person, Emma. And I don’t think moving on is giving in. Quite the opposite. It’s a sign you’re making decisions again. Regaining control. I know it’s hard at the moment. But people do come through this kind of trauma. You just have to accept that it takes time.

She glances at the clock. Excellent work, Emma. You’ve made real progress today. I’ll see you next week at the same time, shall I?

NOW: JANE

30. Which statement best describes your most recent personal relationship?