‘The thing is, I don’t exactly know if I was or not and that’s almost the worst thing, that I don’t know for sure. Remember I went to Tenerife that summer, in nineteen ninety-six? To train staff at that hotel, in badging?’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘That’s where it happened. I met this man, from Belgium. He seemed nice, at first. He wasn’t.’ I hang on to Dad’s hands for dear life, anger rising. I don’t know what to say next. If I had been raped in the way lots of people imagine it – the monster in the shadows, the evil attacker following down a dark alley – it would be more clear-cut; I would be the victim, he would be the perpetrator. I wouldn’t feel so much guilt that I’d got myself into that situation – again – or maybe I still would. Maybe anyone this has happened to – from a violent attack on the street, to a ‘no’ in a living room, to a ‘I’ll let you finish because it’s easier than trying to get you off me’ in their own bed – feels that same guilt; I don’t know. That they could have done more to make it not happen to them. That they could have done less – to not make them wonder every day if they asked for this, when how could anyone ask for that?’

‘What happened, pet?’

‘I slept with him … but it turned bad …’

‘He hurt you?’

‘He was … rough …’ I say. ‘He was rough. And he wouldn’t stop.’

‘Then you were raped.’

‘Sometimes I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know. It’s all such a tangle, in my mind. I go over it again and again because I just don’t know. I invited him in. I invited them both in.’

‘You were raped,’ says Dad, squeezing my hands. ‘And he did it in such a way that you would be trapped in doubt and confusion about it. I’m so sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry.’

I let go of Dad’s hands and I stumble into his arms, breathing in the warm skin at his neck, that smell of Imperial Leather soap and washing powder. I can feel the tears on his cheeks on mine. I can feel his heart beating.

‘I don’t want to be trapped any more,’ I whisper.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he whispers back. ‘None of it is your fault.’ He strokes my back and clutches me tight. My dad. My lovely dad. Eventually he pulls away from me and his eyes are red and watery.

‘I remember now, when you got back from that trip,’ he says, a waver to his voice. ‘You were very withdrawn at times, but at other times very over-bright and chatty. I thought you were just exhausted. But I also remember you changed departments not long after that, didn’t you?’