Scalding fury takes over; he thinks he can do this, thinks he can get away with it and he might, man against woman, white against black. Her thoughts switch on. He’s forgotten her hands are free, he doesn’t see her slide them into the bag which has swung forward around her neck. While his fingers are scrabbling at her pants, tearing cloth and skin, hers push aside the purse and inhaler and close on Blake’s penknife. She flicks open the blade, her hands still deep in the bag as he snarls in her ear. ‘You’ve had this coming, stuck-up bitch.’

She jabs back fast and hard. The knife is snagged by his jeans. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t notice, he is beginning to straddle her, putting both thighs alongside hers, pushing into her, missing, swearing. He bends to bite her neck and she jabs backwards again, higher this time; the knife glides through the cloth of his tee-shirt and into skin, a layer of firmer tissue after that. He screams, a high-pitched shriek, and falls away from her; his shoulders and then his head hit the tarmac with a bang. She runs to the car, her breath hurting her throat, her bag swinging about her neck, the dress around her waist. The car key misses the lock twice. Once inside she doesn’t look back. She drives fast, swerving out of the car park then along the road; she takes the second left, skids half up on the pavement and brakes sharply. She raises her hips, pulls off her pants and shoves them in the glove compartment, DNA from his skin if it comes to that. She leans forward and takes slow, trembling breaths, trying to calm herself; her heart is still pounding, her head still full of noise, but none of it makes sense. After a few minutes she wipes her face with her palms and pulls out her phone. She jabs at a number three times.

‘A pusher on the Blackberry Estate’s been stabbed; he’s loaded with coke. He’s by the rubbish bins behind the fence.’ Her voice isn’t like her voice. She gives the address and cuts the call; she won’t hang around. Her father’s stories about white police swell the roaring fear, about what they did to his countrymen; he’d warn her she could be blamed for her own assault. In any case, the police don’t need her story; that boy has enough coke on him for months in jail, years maybe. He’ll say nothing about her, surely. Attempted rape would mean extra years. She’ll say nothing to Martin, either; he comes from a different world; he’d make her go to the police or even tell them himself, not understanding the dangers. She could end up in jail. She’ll cope, she always does.