The police tapped so lightly on the front door, I didn’t hear them at first. Floorboards creaking on the landing outside caught my attention, and my skin prickled. Opening the door a crack, I saw the uniform and my shoulders relaxed. It was early in the morning, around seven. I’d tossed and turned all night, images of him invading my thoughts. Was he getting ready to go out and find another victim? My conscience berated me for not reporting it yesterday. Eventually, I gave in and made the call to the police. They arrived within the hour and two female officers sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. One of the officers, a redhead with freckles, wore the uniform. The other, with blonde shoulder length hair, was higher ranking and wore a smart navy trouser suit. I sat opposite them, smoking one of Ben’s cigarettes from a packet left on the kitchen table. Trembling hands betrayed my composure. I didn’t want to relive it all over again but made sure my voice remained steady as I recalled the events of yesterday morning, explaining I had been raped on my way to the train station.

They both took notes, showing concern but maintaining their professionalism. The uniformed officer looked like she was trying to capture my words in their entirety. Her hand flew across the page like lightning, seizing every detail.

‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’

I shook my head. I didn’t want my mother to know. She wouldn’t be any help, over a hundred miles away, and there was no point in upsetting her. She was in a fragile state most of the time when she was sober anyway. She and my father had moved to Norfolk to retire five years ago. Giving me the deposit for the flat and helping to arrange the mortgage before they left. I think they felt guilty, leaving me behind on my own, no siblings to rely on, but I didn’t want to go with them. Leave my job and my friends to move to a new town and start all over again. They’d barely been there a year when my dad had a heart attack and died. Mum turned to alcohol to cope. I tried to get her to come back, to move in with me, but she didn’t want to leave the home she shared with Dad, however briefly.

‘Would you be able to give us the clothes you were wearing yesterday?’ the uniformed officer asked; slipping on latex gloves and placing a clear plastic bag on the table.

I retrieved the clothes from the bathroom, where they remained untouched, and placed them inside the bag she held open.

‘You’ve not washed them?’

I shook my head. It sickened me to touch them. The sight repulsed me, which was infuriating as they were my favourite pair of jeans. I could never wear them again.