Gemma took a seat at the table with her, digging a fork into the stew and blowing on it before putting it in her mouth. It tasted as delicious as it had smelled.

‘I know what happened; how you got it,’ she said carefully. It felt the right time, having broached the subject already.

Meredith’s head jerked up. ‘How?’

‘I did a search for your name on the General Registry – sorry, our database – and saw the report about the attack on you. I’m so sorry, Meredith; it sounds like a horrific experience. A terrible thing to happen to you.’

Meredith sat completely still, glassy-eyed, and Gemma felt it would be insensitive to take another mouthful of the stew. She gently picked up Meredith’s fork and placed it into her hand. ‘Please, try and eat if you can.’

‘I don’t want anyone to know,’ Meredith blurted eventually. ‘It would be in the papers. I couldn’t bear it all being raked up again, when I did everything to avoid people knowing last time.’

39

1995
Meredith

Someone was actually trying to get into my bedroom; a real-life horror movie. I’d locked the door, but as the intruder pushed I didn’t trust the lock to hold. I wedged the rubber door stop in the gap under the door, screaming as loudly as I could.

That was when it all kicked off. The intruder shoved and rattled the door, hard this time. I rammed my foot up against the doorstop to prevent it slipping, but the person on the other side was now banging on the door panels. Why, why hadn’t I put in an alarm the day I moved in? A panic button? A sturdy bolt as well as the lock and key? My telephone was on the bedside table on the far side of the bed. I had a choice – either lunge for it now and call 999, or keep my bodyweight against the door in case the lock gave way.

My elderly neighbours were all deaf, and although the houses were terraced, they were so solidly built that no noise leached through the walls. I screamed more loudly though, just in case someone heard through the window. But my bedroom was at the back of the house, not over the street.

I was wearing flowery cotton pyjamas. I remembered looking down at them and having the inane thought: I couldn’t be murdered wearing flowery cotton pyjamas, I just couldn’t.

The intruder kicked the door with all his force, splintering the bottom panel. With a jerk of shock I saw a huge black boot briefly appear through the hole, then withdraw. Then, worse, a black-gloved hand shot through and grabbed me in an iron-pincerlike grip around my calf, crushing the cotton flowers. When I tried to disengage it, his other hand reached through the hole too, and then he had my arm.