With difficulty, the girl stood up, her dress falling back down over her legs. Her underwear was still around her ankles, and she pulled it up. It looked like such an innocent everyday action, but now she was doing it to cover up the damage, using her underwear as a bandage to dress what was now a wound.

Lockhart looked down at the girl. She was pretty, with long blond hair, which was now matted and rancid-looking. The last half hour, or however long ago it was that Butcher had abducted her, would change her life forever. He wanted to hug the girl, to attempt to reassure her, but he knew that the gesture would be misinterpreted. She looked back at Lockhart, her watery blue eyes set amid a red and swollen face.

Lockhart smiled at her. He had no idea what to say apart from:

“You’re safe now, you’re all right. It’s finished. It’s all over.”

The girl continued staring at him, her whole body trembling as if she was about to explode.

“What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t reply.

“Where do you live?”

Still no reply. The trembling grew more intense.

“Tell me, so I can take you back home, back to your mother and father.”

And then the girl started to scream once more, as though she was trying to expel every morsel of evil that Butcher had pumped into her. She started beating Lockhart’s stomach and chest, which he allowed her to do until it actually began to hurt. He grabbed her wrists, which caused her to struggle wildly. He had to let go. Now what was he to do? He wanted to get her to safety, but he didn’t want to leave Butcher, fearing that he might escape, despite the fact that he was still writhing about on the floor.

But the girl made up Lockhart’s mind by running out of the room. He bolted out after her, and saw her run awkwardly down the stairs, the effects of the rape evidently impeding her. He ran after her, but stopped himself when she reached the front door. She would find refuge, someone would help her. After a few seconds of reflection, Lockhart also realized that the sight of an SS officer running after a teenage girl with blood trickling down her legs would not look good. He knew there was little more he could have done for her, but he felt helpless nevertheless.

He went back into the room to find Butcher leaning against the wall, pulling up his breeches. His tunic was covered in vomit and blood, the latter of which was pouring from his nose and a deep cut on his forehead. Lockhart wanted to kill him, beat that head into a misshapen ball of flesh, blood and bone. No punishment would be too horrendous. He had to exercise all his self-control not to mete it out—he was no thug. Instead, he would throw Butcher to the wolf that was an SS court-martial.