But she couldn’t. That would end her career.

And there was always the possibility that she was mistaken. All she had to go on was a feeling, and that was not enough, at least not in a court of law.

She turned, and walked to the front door. She closed it behind her and walked away. It was her only option, but she could not shake the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.

Twelve Years Earlier, 31 July 2006

1

Maggie lay on her side, her knees to her chest. She didn’t know what to do, whether to sit or stand or lie down. Even the choice between keeping her eyes open or closed was beyond her: if she opened them, she was reminded of where she was, the horror of her situation. If she closed them, images of the man in his bathrobe came to her.

And it had only got worse.

She had stomach cramps, cramps she recognized. Period cramps. She felt bloated and lethargic and soon she would need a tampon.

There were none, of course. The man had not thought of providing any. She would have to ask him for some, but if the blood came before he did then all she had was the washcloth. She would have to use that.

In amongst it all, though, was relief.

She was not pregnant.

He had raped her four times, each time without using a condom. Each time she had wondered if she was pregnant.

So the cramps were welcome. They also meant – she hoped – that he would leave her alone, that there would be some respite from the door opening and him standing there in his blue bathrobe, his thin, hairless ankles above his sandals.

She clutched her stomach and groaned. She always got bad period pains but the cramps were worse than usual this time. She’d have to ask for something to help. Paracetamol, maybe.

Then she heard it. The scraping sound that meant he was on his way. She’d been awake awhile; it was probably lunchtime. He’d bring one of the awful meals he made but she wouldn’t eat much of it. She had no appetite. Maybe she’d drink something.

The handle turned and the door opened. The man was standing there holding a tray. He stepped forward and put it down; he was moving awkwardly, like he was in pain. His jeans had grass stains on the knees. She had an image of her and her mum and dad and brother in the garden, mowing the lawn and sunbathing, and a wave of longing washed over her.

‘I need something,’ she muttered.

‘What? Are you ill?’ His voice was low, and clipped.

‘I have – I have my period.’

He looked at her blankly. ‘I see. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you need, exactly?’

‘Paracetamol,’ she said. ‘For the pain. And Tampax. I need two types: heavy and regular. Heavy for the first few days.’