He lets himself out of the house. Once again, I feel as though events have taken a strange turn. Then I remember that I wanted to alert my father, so I reach for my phone.

Constable Mwire nudges it out of the way.

“I’d like to use my phone, please.”

“Please wait for a few minutes. Let my colleague get there first.”

I sit in the armchair with my hands folded in my lap, feeling as if I have fallen into a Kafka novel. I have no idea what my rights are. My knowledge of the law is culled from television shows and social media. It doesn’t seem right that a police officer can occupy my home in this way and refuse me access to my phone. Am I a suspect? What am I suspected of?

“You are under suspicion of having not taken adequate measures to prevent your rape. You didn’t say ‘no’ clearly enough or firmly enough for the men to understand you. You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. We are investigating you for your acquiescence in this felonious act.”

She doesn’t say this.

I ask her nothing and she says nothing. We sit in silence. I can hear her breathing. The shadows move along the floor as time passes. Her phone buzzes, and she picks it up to read a text. Then she stands.

“My colleague is with your father now. I will join him. Thank you for your co-operation.”

Once she has gone, I ring my father. He doesn’t answer.

CHAPTER 14

The Olifantsbos hike is one of those life events that almost convinces me that I could be different from the way I am.

We have agreed to meet at eight in the morning, so that we don’t walk in the midday sun. This means I have to set my alarm for half-past-six. I have almost forgotten how the alarm on my phone works, so I test it several times. Even then, I don’t quite trust it. I don’t sleep well the night before. I keep waking up and looking at the time, convinced I have overslept.

At half-past-six, I am relieved to leave my bed. I take a shower because it seems like the right thing to do. My three companions will have showered, and so I will too. While I am in the shower, I wash my hair. I have to wash it three times before it feels clean.

I towel myself dry, aware that I have emerged from the water a different creature.

This person who is awake and showered before seven is an unfamiliar version of me. I feel washed clean of sin and born again. The puritanical virtues reside in my sinless self—early rising, hygiene, brisk exercise in the morning air, sexless camaraderie with others.