In the car on the way to the police station, I go over the events, scrabbling for details. A woman dead. Not dead though now, but alive. But harmed. Grievously. I try and think, late twenties, was she? Thirty? Dark hair, in curls. She was wearing a pink skirt, I remember now how it twisted around her waist. And that white shirt, the spilled wine, making maps on her body. A broken record. But the man who was there is more important right now. I’ll need to give a description of him with clear details so that when I deny it, it has the ring of truth – or if not truth, then plausibility. Plausibility: so much more important than simple, ordinary, mundane truth. Especially for a person like me.

I cast my mind back to him. It was difficult to judge from my vantage point on the floor, but I guess him to be about five feet eleven? Six feet? Trousers. He had trousers, of course, he had trousers but what were they like? Suit trousers I think, dark grey maybe. But what else? The details elude me and I screw my eyes hard in remembrance, but his face is lost to me.

‘You okay there, sir?’ the officer in the passenger seat says – the younger one.

I nod but keep my eyes shut. If there is memory to squeeze out, I must do it now. The police will be setting traps. They will roll out barbed questions and watch as my words catch on their sharp points. The car turns a corner, sending me rocking against the fabric seats.

What did he look like?

By the time we pull to a halt, I have gathered no more than a few wisps of memory. I remember her hair, the curls and how they were arranged across her face, covering part of it. The rooms too, the quality of light in them, the precise texture of that silk carpet. This is uselessly committed to memory, but him? Thirties maybe, early thirties, late twenties? Brown hair? Possibly, but who could tell in that light? I was on the floor for most of it. He was obscured by the edge of my sofa.

At Paddington Green Police Station, I am processed in a way that seems casual: my fingerprints rolled lazily on to sticky film, photographs taken without ceremony or flash. The contents of my pockets: lighter – one, cigarette ends – four, pound coins – three, belt – one, laces – two, key – one, placed into a brown paper bag with a window at the top and then locked into a cupboard. Then I am introduced to the custody sergeant and shown to my cell. It happens, all of this, in a smear.