It would not have helped her to appear before the Commission, even at a closed hearing. The offer had been made, a special session on abused women. ‘Of course, everyone acknowledges that both sides used women, exploited them, this is an opportunity to bring the issue out into the open, to lance the last festering wound, to say something profoundly personal.’ A young lawyer from the TRC had brought the offer. She looked into his eyes and saw an evangelist's fervour. When she refused, she saw in Silas (whom she'd asked to remain with her in order to inhibit the young emissary's eagerness) a brief moment of disappointment. Her appearance would have given him the opportunity to play the brave, stoical husband. He would have been able to demonstrate his objectivity, remaining calm and dignified, in spite of being so close to the victim.

Nothing in her life would have changed, nothing in any of their lives would change because of a public confession of pain suffered. Because nothing could be undone, you could not withdraw a rape, it was an irrevocable act, like murder. Once that violating penis, that vile cock had been inside you, it could not be withdrawn, not by an act of remorse or vengeance, not even by justice.

For the first time in many weeks, she thought of Du Boise. In the hospital, she had recalled his face every night, his small and dull eyes, not beady, but transparent in their blueness. She remembered the horror of his climax, the way he shuddered, his eyes closed only for an instant, as if he was afraid she might murder him in his moment of glorious incapacity. Is that not what all men feel? A sense of glory when they come inside a woman, whether in consensual love or uninvited imposition?

And now Du Boise was inside this house, this house of shadows, ensconced in those high eaves through which the wind howled, a noise audible only from down here. There, there it was, as if on cue, as if summoned by her awareness of it. A few more days and these stitches will come out, she'll be able to return to her bedroom, above this fatal flaw in the house's architecture. This brought home another realization. She'll be back in bed with Silas, her husband. And will he expect her to have sex with him, and will she desire him? Almost as if to test her ability still to desire, she touched her vagina, slowly caressing herself. She was fifteen the last time she had masturbated, the image of Sister Catherine hovering above her, and then Christ and Catherine, and then swarming apparitions, faces of delight and shame. Now, even the appearance of Cathy, the Butcher Road whore, in all her silken finery, could not excite her. She gave up and lay back, tried to sleep. Again that noise. Wind in empty space. The architect must have been a sadist, or a bored artist. A door closed somewhere.