The young woman opposite on the train to London looks incredibly nervous.

We’re late, see. Her mobile phone keeps buzzing; she’s frowning, now, biting her bottom lip, her fingers trembling as she replies to the latest text message.

She’s smartly dressed, but clearly not on a business trip. Her mentor had sent her the ticket; she’d told him that the 08:40 would get her into London in perfect time for their lunch appointment.

Of course, it was always optimistic to assume that twenty minutes would be long enough for her to get from the terminus to the restaurant where they met. She should have booked the earlier train, just in case. But that would have meant getting up earlier, and the extra time in bed had sounded so appealing. Even though she knew that punctuality was expected – nay, required, for their meetings.

She already knew how the afternoon would unfold: he’d summoned her down to see him for a reason, displeased no doubt with the report she had sent of the grades for her most recent assignment. They’d lunch, and then he’d take her back to his townhouse, and show her into the library, and make her touch her toes. She feared the worst: last time had been eight strokes, almost too much to bear. This time must surely be more. And that was before she’d kept him waiting.

The train pulled up in Peterborough. She could get off – escape, return home, avoid the inevitable. But somehow she didn’t want to…