That time it had ended when he slammed a door on her hand, revelling in her pain and the knowledge that now she would step out of the maze and come up close. And she had come to him, the hurt pouring from her eyes, the fingers of her uninjured hand wrapped tightly round the handle of a kitchen knife. He had revelled in the drunken pleasure of it, his heart racing as he clamped her fragile hand in his fist so hard he felt the sharpness of her bones against his palm and imagined they might shatter.

He held her in mid-air trembling and convulsing, tears flooding down her white cheek and melting into the fabric of her blouse. Staring into his mother’s eyes, he had pushed the silver blade against his skin and drew a weeping scarlet line down his chest. For a moment the pain had been glorious, more glorious than he could have hoped, but there had been something in her eyes far deeper than horror. He had wanted it so much that it gone beyond a game. Simple pain could never be enough anymore. She had looked into his face and seen a frenzy of desire that would consume them both. She had seen beyond him to a dark and terrible place where the lust for perversion knew no bounds and would never be satisfied. And he had seen it too. He had seen his monster and it terrified him, but he could not stop.