Lina stares. Her eyes are full of fear; she might have no visa and no official permission to work here.

“No police, okay. I understand. I’ll knock on your door in ten minutes.”

Lina stands up, still wrapped in the blanket, and disappears swiftly up the stairs.

The National Domestic Violence helpline springs up on the screen in Paul’s study when Melissa taps Women’s Aid into the keyboard. She jabs the number into her phone with fingers that fumble with haste. A brisk voice answers. She explains she is calling on behalf of her maid, giving an account of how she found Lina, what she saw.

“Yes, the perpetrator has access to her.”

Unwise to name her husband, they might suspect an agenda. Lina can fill them in.

“Sixteen, maybe younger.”

No one could have guessed; Lina was never without makeup and obscuring clothes.

“Syria. My husband said we were doing a favor for a friend by taking her on.”

I never suspected he was lying, which was stupid; he’s lied to me so often.

“Bruising. She’s pregnant.”

Paul would want to get rid of it, remove the incriminating evidence.

“I haven’t asked specifically about rape.”

I’m certain, though. He raped me, for years.

“She doesn’t want me to involve the police.”

I wish I hadn’t mentioned the police to her, she was frightened.

“Can I bring her now?”

The woman explains that Lina would be welcome to seek immediate refuge but that she will need more details from Lina and she must ask for refuge herself. That’s crucial. They have translators if language is a problem—women in many shelters speak Arabic, though it will depend which dialect she speaks: Levantine, Bedawi, or Mesopotamian, for instance; there are many others. Funding will be necessary; normally there’s a process of application for money.

“I can pay, whatever it costs.”

She’s advised it’s best to travel a distance from the abuser, out of London if possible; is there anywhere that she might like? Melissa stares at the map on the wall above Paul’s desk, scanning cities at speed: Oxford, Brighton, Guildford, Chichester. The little red circles blur and jump: Reading, Swindon, Bath, Salisbury. The circle steadies.

“Would Salisbury be possible? I’ll be working nearby, so I can visit. Yes, of course; I’ll wait.”

Melissa puts her phone on silent and creeps into her bedroom. Paul’s mouth is open, his arms flung wide. He looks unconscious. She retrieves his keys from the floor by his side of the bed where he dropped them. When her phone vibrates, she tiptoes from the room to answer. Lina will be welcome in the Salisbury shelter, she is told, provided she asks for herself. One of the clients is Arabic—she speaks in Mesopotamian dialect but is familiar with some others—hopefully they will be able to communicate. She is given the number, which she puts into her phone.

“Lina will call on the way; we need to leave now. Thank you, thank you.”

The clock on Paul’s desk reads seven A.M. They’ll reach Salisbury by nine depending on traffic. By the time she returns, Paul will be at work. She’ll pack then, and collect Izzy from Eve’s after school; their new life will start.