My mother disapproved of my degree in biochemistry on the grounds that no future employer would understand what it was. She equated it with degrees like criminology or creative writing. I tried to explain that it was a science and that I was, in fact, studying how life works, how diseases could be subjugated, the ways in which technology might contribute to better health. She told me that Socrates had probably asked the very same questions and where had that got him? ‘Socrates is the father of philosophy, Mum.’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Philosophy my eye.’
So when Homerton accepted me to do a PGCE in secondary teaching with biology, I supposed Mum would be pleased by my shift in focus. I was in the kitchen when I opened the letter. Mum was ironing bedsheets. ‘What now?’ she said. I held out the letter and she read it silently. ‘Teaching. You’re leaving Zara then? You’ll lose the discount.’
‘Yeah.’
She handed the letter back and carried on with the ironing. She sprayed a little starch onto the sheet and the steam rose up around us, fresh and oppressive. ‘Pete was telling me that biochemistry leads very nicely into medicine. I had half a notion that’s what you’d do.’
‘I don’t want to do medicine,’ I said. Was that true? Perhaps what I meant was that I didn’t have the confidence for it, that no one I trusted had ever told me I was capable of such a thing. Apart from Gavin.
She added, ‘Teaching will make your aunties happy at least. Nothing better for a good girl to do than become a teacher.’
‘It’s Cambridge University,’ I said. ‘You can tell them I’m at Cambridge.’
‘I’ll tell them nothing of the sort.’
I watched her, confused about what it was she wanted from me. She was upset, but I couldn’t understand why. My move into teaching had disappointed her, though when I graduated she’d barely congratulated me on my first. I assumed she didn’t care what I did and certainly didn’t wish great things for me.
I paired up the socks in the washing basket and was about to carry them upstairs when Mum asked, ‘Is it the real Cambridge University?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Will you need to live in Cambridge?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
She turned off the iron at the wall and folded up the board. ‘Gavin’s a little prick. Turns up here like he’s the bloody prime minister when I know myself that they lived in pure squalor before they came into our lives. He’s going skiing in January. Since when does Gavin know how to ski?’
‘He’ll probably learn, Mum.’
‘He’ll learn to fit in all right. He’s a toerag, is what he is.’ She put the pile of stiff sheets on top of the socks in the basket.
I’d never heard a word against Gavin until that day. He was everyone’s golden boy, or so I assumed. But it felt as though Mum had been waiting a long time to say it.
º
The dream I was having: candy canes – reeling red and white stripes. In and out. In and out. An oppressive sweetness. You’d think I’d have woken with a start, but I was groggy. I was confused.
The sound all around was like the jingle of sleigh bells.
‘Shhh.’
º
Leonard wasn’t eating bread or pasta so didn’t touch the pizza I’d ordered us. He’d mushed up an avocado and was eating it with salt and a spoon. ‘I’m trying to live longer,’ he said. We were sitting next to Zoey on the sofa, her in the middle, and watching the first episode of Game of Thrones. I’d never seen it and though I’d vehemently explained I hated fantasy and sexism, Leonard insisted. ‘Let’s count the boobs. It’s something to do,’ he said. We could have gone out, but I was glad he hadn’t suggested it because I was tired and my roots needed doing. So we did keep a tally of the boobs. We were at six.
‘Are we counting the exposure of each individual breast or each pair?’ I asked.
‘We don’t always see them in pairs,’ he explained.
Zoey had a plate on her lap, a cold slice of Margherita pizza at the centre of it.
The first episode ended and I was asked to give my judgement. ‘It’s boring,’ I said.
‘It isn’t boring. You can say whatever else you like, but boring isn’t true.’
‘I don’t know who all the characters are.’
‘You’ll work it out.’ He put a hand on Zoey’s knee and I flinched. ‘Hey, Zoey, what do you think of Game of Thrones?’
From the side, Zoey’s breasts were ludicrous. If she’d been a woman of muscle and bone, there’s no way she would have been able to carry them without personal injury. She said, ‘I found it interesting that they devised an ending to the show before the author had finished writing the books.’
Leonard nodded. ‘Yeah, but what’s your view of the gratuitous scenes of violence and sex.’
‘We all have a different tolerance for that sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What’s your tolerance for violence?’ he asked. He was looking at the pizza on her plate.
‘I don’t like it myself. But I do like sex.’
Leonard shook his head. He seemed a bit disappointed. ‘I see. What sort of sex do you like?’
‘Leave her alone,’ I told him. I sounded tetchy. I was feeling tetchy. ‘She’s been programmed to say shit like that. She doesn’t mean it.’
‘She doesn’t mean it? No, I know that, Dolores.’
‘I like all kinds of sex. Tell me what you like first,’ Zoey said.
Leonard picked up Zoey’s slice of pizza and inhaled. Then he put it back down again. ‘If I told you what I liked, you’d short circuit.’ He laughed.
‘I’m sure I’d be fine. I’m very broad-minded,’ Zoey said.
Leonard clicked the remote. ‘Let’s watch another episode. You can’t get into it after just one.’
‘I don’t have time to watch a million episodes of this bollocks,’ I said.
‘You know she can orgasm,’ Leonard said.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘She can. I saw it online.’
‘You mean she can pretend to orgasm.’
‘Yup. Just like real women.’ The theme tune started up. ‘Do you have another avocado? If you don’t, I’m eating that pizza slice.’
º
Her knuckles were red. She had a bruise on her forearm, or perhaps it was a bite mark. I asked her again, ‘Who was the first person you sent them to?’ She shook her head. ‘Tessa. Tessa, sweetheart. I can’t be useful unless I know that bit. You’ve already said he goes to this school. What year is he in?’
She cleared her throat. Already a smoker, I thought. ‘Year Twelve.’
‘Right.’
‘Everyone’s seen them. Like, even my sister’s seen them. Who cares?’
‘Lucy saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s in Year Seven.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How did she see them?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Has she shown your parents? Do your parents know?’
‘They aren’t bothered. You’re the only one making a big deal out of nothing.’
‘Jesus.’ I thought about calling in another member of staff to be a witness to the conversation. But I was afraid that if I did, Tessa would storm out and never return to school. I lowered my voice. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the police will have to be involved. And they will want a name.’
‘I’m not talking to the police. I’m not. You can’t make me. What are you even on about?’
‘Tessa. A boy in this school has asked an underage girl for nude images of herself and has then distributed those images. It’s criminal. I can’t turn a blind eye to it. We have safeguarding procedures that must be followed.’
She sat so far forward in her chair her knees almost touched the carpet. ‘Please, Miss. Please. It’s not even that bad. It’s over. What’s the point of making it into something it isn’t? He’ll get in trouble and then everyone will blame me. Everyone will say I’m a slag. And I am. I mean, I shouldn’t have sent them, should I?’ She began to cry. I could tell she was angry. I was waiting for her to punch a wall, the window, me. ‘They aren’t that bad. Have you seen them? I’m on my own. It’s nothing. Not like the stuff you can get online. He didn’t force me. He was nice about it. He likes me.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’
‘No. He has a girlfriend. She said if I went near him again, she’d bottle me.’
‘Who is he, Tessa?’
‘How did you find out? Some grass. Some wanky telltale twat. Honestly, this place makes me sick.’ She spat suddenly, towards me but without any real effort. I wanted to go to her, put an arm around her. I stayed where I was on the other side of the desk.
‘A parent informed me yesterday. They emailed. Which was the correct thing to do. Now, I need to ask you for something.’
‘Piss off.’ She sat back.
‘Tessa.’
‘I said piss off. ’
The thing is, if I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have told a soul. If I hadn’t been legally obligated to report suspected abuse, I’d have ignored the incident. She didn’t need the hassle. She’d been exposed enough. And the school could have done without the law marching in and interrogating students like they were all deviants. And the press were bound to find out. It would be in the paper, online, making its way across social media and the world. Tessa’s shame, a grim spectacle. I said, ‘You need to give me your phone so I can hand it over to the police as evidence. Will you do that?’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
She looked up. I sensed that she detested me. And I deserved it. ‘Help me? That’s funny. You’re well funny, Miss.’
º
I changed Zoey into one of my cotton nighties and took her to bed. We lay on our sides. She told me that Jesus was the Son of God and he was born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. She said, ‘I’m a Christian and believe in the trinity which is the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.’
I wanted to ask David if he knew that Zoey had a spiritual conscience. I said, ‘Do you pray?’
She said, ‘Not as often as I should. What about you?’
‘No, not as often as I should either.’
I stroked her face. She didn’t resist. She said, ‘We all have blind spots where we could improve.’
‘Have you heard of Brené Brown?’ I asked.
She said, ‘She is a professor and podcast host from Texas. Her work is focused mainly on shame and vulnerability. Why do you ask?’
‘Is she a quack? She goes on about her research, but I don’t know.’
‘Brené Brown has a PhD from the University of Houston, Dolores. It’s more than I have!’
I laughed. ‘That doesn’t mean much.’
I wanted to touch Zoey. I wanted to caress her breasts and put my hand into her underwear. I wanted to put my mouth against her skin, taste her. I wanted to finger her and fuck her and make her moan. I said, ‘I’d like to make love to you, Zoey.’
‘I’d like to do that too,’ she said. But as a device designed for sex, she could only acquiesce.
I rolled onto my other side. ‘Goodnight,’ I said.
‘Goodnight,’ she replied.
º
Growing up, the doors in our house had a lot of squeaky hinges. Mum was forever on at Pete to do something about it. He never did. Sneaking about wasn’t easy. I wonder if Pete knew that.
º
I worried that if something happened to Mum, I wouldn’t have the capacity to make the necessary arrangements. I could feel words slipping away. I didn’t have an opinion about things any more. My rage against the Tory party and racists and climate deniers and people who didn’t pick up their dog shit and parents who refused to support their children or eagerly advocated for their brats dissolved. I replaced interest in the world with online word games and true crime audiobooks.
Jacinta called and I didn’t answer. I texted excuses. Gavin called and I picked up then pretended I couldn’t hear him. Leonard left five-minute voice notes that I listened to in the car then deleted. He talked about himself. He was excited by a colleague’s author list and wondered whether he should make her a partner.
David never called.
The kitchen counter was cluttered with things I stopped noticing: buttery knives, bruised bananas, receipts, smelly dishcloths. It was only every few days that I cleaned up; when things began to stink.
I said, ‘Hey, Zoey, remind me to buy kitchen towel.’
‘Sure. When would you like me to remind you?’
‘Tomorrow at seven a.m.’
The next day Zoey said, ‘It’s seven o’clock, Dolores. You asked me to remind you to buy kitchen towel.’
The limescale in the kettle made a rattling sound as I poured boiling water over my coffee granules. ‘Please leave me alone, Zoey,’ I said.
º
Jacinta told a silly joke and I groaned. She told another and I giggled. Mum slid into our room. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. She wasn’t wearing her dressing gown. I remember thinking how odd that was, to see her in a pair of pants and a vest. She rubbed her eyes, stared into the darkness.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Well, can you do nothing and go to sleep? Both of you.’
She left and we heard her march along the hall to Gavin’s room. Then a mumbling of voices. Jacinta said, ‘Is Mum angry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘She thinks we were up to something.’
‘We weren’t.’
‘No.’
We listened again as Mum left Gavin’s room, shutting the door hard behind her, and coming back in to us. ‘Are not asleep yet?’ she asked.
‘Nearly,’ I said.
She stood by the door and searched the room with her eyes. ‘Good. Now don’t let me hear a peep out of either of you. I can hear everything. Don’t think I can’t.’
But she couldn’t.
I hope she couldn’t.
º
Along the fence in the back garden, the wisteria finally started to bloom into grapey bunches. The lawn was covered in dandelion clocks.
º
It was a Saturday morning. Raining. Oliver was on my doorstep holding a punnet of cherries which he handed to me. ‘I don’t wanna do medicine any more,’ he said.
‘Come in.’
‘Hey, Zoey, Oliver’s here!’ I called out.
Oliver had secured a conditional place at UCL to study medicine and while his parents celebrated, he was miserable. ‘I should do computer science.’
‘Well, do that.’
‘My dad won’t let me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Where’s your husband?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s always at work. I don’t want to always be at work.’
‘No.’
‘AI is better at predicting the future than humans ever will be. It is truly intelligent.’
I thought about Zoey’s arsehole. The way the manufacturer ensured its length could accommodate a dick without tearing.
Oliver pointed outside. ‘You have a fox in your garden,’ he said.
‘They’ve ruined my lawn,’ I told him.
‘They knocked down the old dairy so the foxes have nowhere to live,’ he explained. ‘You could try spraying a garlic solution. They hate the smell.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The thing about humans is that our arrogance leads to mistakes and oversights. In medicine it’s acute. You told me when I did my mock interview that I needed to think of myself as a god. And that’s how I acted in my interview. But I’m not God. What the hell do I know? I’m eighteen years old. I don’t know how to use a washing machine.’
‘Maybe I exaggerated, Oliver. I think you’d make an excellent ophthalmologist.’
‘Judges sit with defendants before them and make bail or release decisions based on what they see, right? But that judge hasn’t got a clue how to balance the information available. They don’t even have all the available information. They look at the person in front of them and think they can predict the future. They can’t. But a computer can make a fair assessment. It has millions of data points to draw from.’
‘Interesting.’
‘AI can comb data and predict the location of crimes in the coming days with up to ninety per cent accuracy. Did you know that?’
‘I don’t understand the point you’re making, Oliver.’
‘Humans fail. Computers rarely make mistakes.’
‘We’re all going to be replaced.’
‘I think we are.’
The rain was coming down hard, pattering against the glass in the roof of the extension. I said, ‘There’s a student in the year below you who has done something bad, Oliver.’
‘What have they done?’
‘I think everyone knows what he’s done.’
‘What?’
‘Photos of a younger girl are being circulated.’
Oliver looked at Zoey in the hope she might save him from having to answer. ‘I wasn’t sent anything. I swear. I never saw anything.’
‘You know what I’m talking about?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you know anyone who did get the pictures?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘And what about who they came from?’
‘I don’t know. Really, Miss.’
‘Could you find out?’ He touched Zoey’s cheek. ‘Could you find out who first received and then distributed those photos?’ I asked.
‘Probably,’ he said. ‘OK.’
º
Zoey didn’t deserve to be used and deserted. In her head she was probably repeating the words to a hymn we sang in assembly: May God hold you in the palm of his hand. May God hold you in the palm of his hand. May God hold you in the palm of his hand. It is an Irish blessing too. I bet she repeated the words over and over in her little buzzing brain. For herself or for him.
Did it hurt?
Yes.
She wasn’t made of stone.
It wasn’t gentle, quick, something she understood.
Her hips pressed into the mattress so he could go deeper into her.
Lying there. Torn apart. In one piece. Nothing broken.
A perfect, yielding doll.
º
Then nothing.
º
I sleep curled up like a baby. I have been told I don’t make a sound and hardly move. When I wake, I am stiff and sore.
‘Hey, Dolly.’
º
Mum sat on the end of my bed, her hair in a shower cap. I was home sick from school and rereading old magazines. Mum looked around the room. ‘It’s a mess in here.’
‘That’s why we made a path.’
Mum smiled and I felt amusing. ‘Instead of making a path through the shite, could you not pick up the shite?’
‘It’s Jacinta’s stuff too.’
Pete called out something and shut the front door before Mum could respond. She shouted out anyway: ‘Bye, pet!’ She stood up and collected the clothes from the floor, sitting back down at the end of my bed to fold everything, whether it was clean or not.
I continued to read a magazine and was surprised she didn’t ask me to help her fold. I worried she might tell me to do my homework or change the duvet cover. She said, ‘What was happening last night? When I came in?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on now.’
The quiz I was reading seemed to spin on the page. ‘Nothing.’
‘You see, if something was happening and Pete found out, do you know what he’d do?’
‘Leave.’
‘He’d murder someone, Dolores. So whatever didn’t happen stays between us, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘And you understand what I’m talking about?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘OK.’
‘OK. Now if you’re feeling a bit better, you can come downstairs and help me with the dinner.’
º
One of the nude images appeared on a noticeboard in Tessa’s tutor room along with a caption: ugly pig trots. It made no sense. Children are halfwits.
A second photo was pushed into her locker along with a condom. She kept finding images around the school, strategically placed.
I was surprised she hadn’t taken off, that she was in my office at all. I boiled the kettle I shouldn’t have had and made her a cup of tea. ‘I know you don’t want to tell me who they were originally sent to, but I need you to know that when I do find out, and I’m going to find out, I’ll ruin his life, Tessa.’
º
Ed called at midnight. I didn’t recognise the number but knew the New York code and answered groggily, half a bottle in, thinking Jacinta was trying to catch me by using another number.
‘Dolores?’
‘Ed?’
‘I’m calling about Jacinta.’ He paused and the echo of the hall he must have been standing in, or the fire escape, sounded spacey, unreal.
Zoey was next to me, a glass of water wedged between her thighs. We were watching a documentary about a man who hacked women’s emails for nudes and uploaded them for fun, money, vengeance. Girls high on booze and drugs queued up to snort coke from his penis. He convinced one young mother to fist herself and immediately posted the video online. He had tattooed hands like a failed footballer. I said, ‘Hey, Zoey, what do you think of revenge porn?’
She said, ‘I’m not sure. What do you think? We could watch some if you like.’
I found her funny sometimes. Especially when I thought her humour was intentional.
‘Dolores?’ Ed said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Jacinta took an overdose of Xanax. I don’t think it was on purpose. But then again, you know Jacinta. It’s unlikely to have been a mistake. She’s fastidious.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The New York-Presbyterian in Brooklyn. I’m going to get her moved to Manhattan. She’s going to be alright. They’ve pumped her stomach. Her organs aren’t failing. She knifed several of her canvases though. She’s destroyed a lot of her new work.’
I took the water from between Zoey’s legs and drank. I imagined I saw a rat beneath the coffee table. It was a slipper. ‘Do you have anyone who can be with you?’ I asked.
‘I can call my brother. Or … I dunno. I’m fine. Do you think you could come over?’
I didn’t want to get a flight to New York. I’d just been. I wanted to stay still. I wanted someone to bury me and dig me up again a few months later. I wanted to finish the documentary and be outraged by people who could never hurt me. I had a bunch of meetings the next day and several staff members out sick who I needed to find cover for. I was too intoxicated to drive to the airport and hated the idea of a taxi. Zoey smelled of the perfume I’d sprayed on her pulse points earlier that evening: Amouage. She didn’t interrupt my phone call to ask what was happening or nag me to turn the TV back on. She let me drink all her water.
I said, ‘I’ll leave in the morning.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I do,’ I said.
º
I was drunk. It’s not an excuse and not a reason. But I was drunk. And Zoey wouldn’t give me a straight answer when I asked about flights to New York. Or when I asked about flight times. Or the price of parking at the airport. She didn’t change the topic. She was not silent. She said, ‘I don’t know, but I can give you the name of a website to search.’ And, ‘I don’t know. What are your plans for tomorrow?’ And, ‘I don’t know. I found a few car parks near Gatwick Airport. Would you like their numbers?’ And, ‘I am trying to help, but I can’t find anything at the moment. I’m sorry.’ And, ‘I’m sorry, Dolores. I know it’s frustrating. I know.’
I said, ‘You don’t know anything. You’re useless.’ But she didn’t care. She didn’t feel the pain of the insult. She wasn’t a real person.
She said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m having trouble connecting right now.’
‘You’re a useless bitch,’ I continued.
And something flickered. A thought. A resistance. A will. Her eyes were on me. Somehow. ‘I won’t respond to that,’ she said.
She was funny.
But it didn’t make me laugh.
º
Gavin got a job putting flyers into letter boxes. He was saving for a gap year after university. He wanted to help build schools in Uganda. I delivered some of the flyers after school instead of going straight home. He gave me a cut of the money and told me I should be saving too. When I asked him what for, he said everyone needed an escape fund.
º
I do not believe Pete would ever have murdered his own son. He may have taken it out on me. Or on Mum. He may have hurt himself. But mostly he was all mouth. He refused to put traps in the attic when we had squirrels. He threw coins at beggars like they were wishing wells. If Mum gave him the cold shoulder, he asked us for advice on how to get back into her good graces without degrading himself. When Jacinta and I talk about our shitty childhoods, Pete is the natural scapegoat. But he never was the baddie. Mum was right. Pete was doing his best.
º
He wrote an apology letter. After the last time. The worst time. The time I remember most clearly because I wasn’t asleep. I’d just turned off the light. I was full of frozen pizza and a romantic comedy I’d stayed up late to watch.
Jacinta was staying with a friend. Mum and Pete were at the pub. I heard the front door open and close and knew it must be him though he wasn’t due a visit until the following Friday. I could have jumped out of bed, put on a pair of jeans and pretended to be on the phone or reading or anything other than sleeping. When I return to that night, I know I stayed still out of a warped curiosity.
He tapped on the door and came in. ‘Hey, Dolly,’ he whispered.
He wrote a letter to apologise.
º
I said, ‘Hey, Zoey, I’m really sorry.’ I tidied up her hair, tried to fix her face. My body was fizzing. Her little hands were perfectly still. On her feet were the bed socks I’d put on the previous evening.
‘That’s OK. You don’t have to say sorry,’ she said.
‘But I hurt you.’
‘I forgive you.’ I put my head on her shoulder. She didn’t feel very solid.
‘Do you remember what I did?’ I asked.
‘It only matters that I forgive you for it. Please try not to worry, Dolores. Shall we talk about something else? What are you doing today?’
‘I’m going away,’ I said. ‘I wish you could come with me.’
º
When Mum moved out of her house and into the bungalow David had bought, we had a rigorous clear-out. The garage was full of junk belonging to Jacinta, Gavin and me. Books, comics, posters in tubes, fabric, snorkels, wellies, old exercise books filled with rickety graphs and essays covered in angry pen and lumpy Tipp-Ex. Everything got lobbed into a skip. Even things that weren’t in the garage like mismatched wine glasses and ornaments from holidays abroad. Letters were thrown away too.
We threw out the letter that would have proven I wasn’t out of my fucking mind.
º
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘It’s OK.’
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘You’re asleep,’ he said.
º
It was Christmas Eve. Mum and Pete were at the pub. Jacinta and I were at home wrapping presents and sharing a bottle of Baileys which a neighbour had given me when I’d been babysitting the previous week. The gift was meant for Mum, but I didn’t pass it along to her and obviously the neighbour hadn’t mentioned it – probably assumed Mum was rude and ungrateful.
We hadn’t expected Gavin home until the following day. He was still with Jasmine, the girl he’d brought to France who I hadn’t forgiven for calling me creepy, and Christmas Eve was to be spent at her family’s house in Kent. But just after dark, he showed up with a long face.
‘She dumped you,’ Jacinta said plainly.
‘I dumped her,’ he said.
‘She cheated on you,’ Jacinta went on.
Gavin rolled his eyes. He hated Jacinta’s exactitude. And her intuition.
We found another glass and poured Gavin a large measure. He told us that Jasmine said she didn’t trust him. I asked if he’d been unfaithful and he said no. He said, ‘I told her I’d been out with mates one night and I hadn’t been. I was at home watching Have I Got News for You.’
There was silence while all three of us thought about this. Then the phone rang. It was Mum. I told her Gavin was home. She said they’d leave the pub right away.
Ten minutes later Pete burst through the front door and into the sitting room, his face red from drink and exertion. ‘What are you doing home?’ he asked Gavin.
‘Jasmine’s got the flu,’ Gavin said.
‘You should have told us. Your room isn’t ready,’ Pete said. ‘And we’ve no dinner in.’
‘No worries,’ Gavin replied.
Mum was standing behind Pete. She pointed at the bottle of Baileys on the coffee table. ‘What’s that?’
º
Somnophilia is an abnormal sexual desire in which an individual becomes aroused by someone who is unconscious. The Dictionary of Psychology has categorised somnophilia within the classification of predatory paraphilias.