“Right.” His eyes flick up to meet mine for a second, and then he looks down again, tapping his mouse. “Whose idea was it to rape you? You must remember that?”

There is a rushing sound in my head, as though the blood that usually washes around in there has receded. It is low tide in my brain.

“I don’t know who any of my attackers were. I can’t say to you that this one decided this, and that other one demurred. There were six of them, and they were speaking isiXhosa. That’s all I know.”

“Would you recognise them if you saw them again?”

“Yes, but there’s no chance of ever seeing them again. It’s been two years. No arrests have been made. The case has gone cold. I am not sure it was ever warm.”

“Can you remember whether they discussed raping you? Did one of them suggest it and the rest fall in line, or how did it work?”

“It seemed to be their plan from the start. Their only concern was whether there was enough time. They argued about that. They lined up and waited their turn. Then they left. They must have started the fire on their way out.”

“And they took cash?”

“A small amount, yes. They took what was in my bag and in my father’s wallet.” I have already told this to the police. More than once.

“What do you think their purpose was in coming into the house that night?”

“To rape me.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. “To rob us. And to start the fire.”

Jono from Very High Premiums drains his coffee cup and stands up. “Thank you, Miss Lurie. That was helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

Only after he has gone, does it strike that those were very strange questions for an insurance investigator to ask.

This has happened before. There are people who want to talk to me about what I went through. They want me to describe it to them, to answer their questions. They will keep asking, circling ever closer to the act itself, until I call a halt. I have to set limits. I have to decide so far and no further. Otherwise they will keep asking.

Back home, my father is on the phone almost before I walk in the door. I am pleased to be in a position to reassure him.

“What did he want? What did he ask you?”

“You can relax. He seemed uninterested in the furniture. He asked me a few questions about how and where you had collected it over the years, and that was it.”

I hear my father releasing a puff of breath. “Good. That’s good.”

“He seemed happy with my answers.”

“Good work, my girl.”

His praise makes me glow.

“Did he ask you anything else? Anything that wasn’t about the furniture?”