There’s only one person who understands what I’m going through – DS May. My fingers hesitate on my phone as I think about calling her, but then I remember the number she sent me. It’s a lifeline I need, rather than a helpline, but I call the number anyway, the knot in my stomach tightening as I wait for someone to answer.

‘Hello?’ The warm voice on the other end of the line reminds me of the woman in the market in Marrakech, and of the stone she gave me. Kindness, again. It astonishes me how much can be conveyed in a single word.

It triggers a release, my tears erupting and flowing down my face, making it impossible to speak. Eventually they slow enough for me to mumble. ‘Please. Help me.’

*

An hour later, after the call is over, I understand the difference it makes to know that there’s someone else who understands. Drained of emotion, I’m calmer. When I get up to look in the mirror, I gently feel my face where my tears have carved their way through my makeup, exposing a lattice of bruising underneath. Upstairs, I remove the rest of my makeup, flinching as the bruising comes into full view once again. I’d wanted to protect Niamh from it, but in order for her to understand, I need her to see what Andrew’s done to me.

Then I do what the woman on the helpline number told me to do. I call the police – more specifically, DS May.

‘It’s Elise Buckley. I want to report an instance of domestic abuse.’ My voice is shaky and I can’t stop it, but it isn’t because I’m having second thoughts. I’ve never been more sure about anything.

‘OK. Have you spoken to the helpline number I gave you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So they’ve run through what you can expect.’

My voice is a whisper. ‘If he knows I’ve spoken to you, he’ll be so angry.’

‘Elise. Try not to worry,’ DS May tries to reassure me. ‘You’ve done the right thing. We’ll be bringing him in as soon as we’ve taken a statement from you. I’m going to ask Sergeant Collins to come over right away. She’ll have someone with her. They’ll take you through what happens from here.’ She pauses. ‘It isn’t going to be easy, but this is important. You’ve taken the first step, now. Keep strong.’

Nothing can take away my fear right now, but as with the woman on the helpline, I’m aware of the kindness in her voice, kindness that all of a sudden makes it impossible to bear the pain. I manage to say, ‘Thank you,’ before hanging up and doubling over, trying to stifle my sobs.

*