‘I will be careful,’ he said. It was happening, she must move. She tried to raise her shoulders but his hands were on them, pinning her. His body was over her, blocking her escape. He yanked down her pants, put his knees between her legs and pried them apart. His breath came heavily and urgently.

‘Stop,’ she whispered. ‘Please stop.’ She raised her voice. ‘No. Please no. I’m not ready. Not yet.’

He clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Shush.’ She felt breathless. ‘It is too late, Sara. It will be beautiful. This is our love.’ He pushed himself hard into her: for reasons she did not understand – maybe a fear of suffocation – she instinctively put her arms around his back and pulled him up and against her so tightly that his head dropped over her shoulder and the oven-like fierceness of his breathing passed beyond her.

He forced hard, further and further into her, hurting her more than when he had entered, then, with a shudder, flopped on top of her, motionless. For a second she wondered if he’d died. Suddenly he raised himself, pulled himself out of her, still stiff, the most painful seconds of all. She felt trickles dripping on her pubic hair and thighs. He turned and slumped on his back. Freed of his weight, she could breathe more easily. A prickling burned deep within her eyes. She couldn’t bear him to see and rolled away onto her side where she could brush escaping tears away. He’d put her jeans to the side of the rug and she stretched a hand to grab tissues from a pocket. She wiped herself where he had been and retrieved the tissue. It was smeared with small streaks of fresh blood.

She heard sounds of him cleaning and tidying himself and then felt his body closing once more against hers.

‘It was good, yes,’ he said.

She didn’t want to reply but somehow – instinctively and without thought – a tiny voice murmured, ‘It hurt a little.’

They drove home in silence. Occasionally he turned to look at her and smiled; her eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. Her body was sore, her head clouded with shame. There was no one she would be able to tell what had just happened. It was inconceivable to say anything – anything at all – to her father. Perhaps if her mother had been around things would have been different…

She thought of friends with mothers and sisters, all on hand to advise and confide in. If only she’d been able to discuss Kareem with such a sister, none of this would ever have happened; right at the start they’d have said, ‘No!’ She’d never have found herself with a man, unaccompanied, in a deserted wood, miles from home. Now, after this, she was more alone than ever. She would always be alone; always have to work it out herself.