I pressed on. We were nearly at the hospital and time was running out. ‘What do you remember about last night?’

Meg’s breathing returned to normal and she opened her eyes; they were blue like the sea. ‘This old drunk guy was hassling us … you know, wanting to dance and buy us drinks.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He was really old,’ said Meg, shuddering at the memory, ‘like maybe seventy. He had brownish hair, but thin like those ads for hair loss.’

I nodded, encouraging. ‘Did he remind you of anyone?’

Meg closed her eyes. After a moment, she said, ‘No, not really, but he had one of those big red drinker’s noses.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Then what happened?’

‘He was really annoying and gross and then this other guy came up to him and told him to nick off.’

I gave an involuntary start of recognition. ‘Did this new guy talk to you?’

‘Yeah,’ said Meg. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth. The movement must’ve hurt her, though, because the smile faded and she touched a hand to her jaw, running it over the swelling as if she couldn’t quite believe it was her own face. ‘He was a bit old too, but he bought us all drinks, and we figured even if he was dodgy, we were all there. What could possibly happen in a bar?’

What indeed? I thought.

Wozza pulled into the hospital, and I was reaching over to stop the recording when Meg said something in a small voice laced with pain. I let my finger hover over the stop button. ‘What was that?’ I held the phone closer to the girl to catch what she said.

‘His name was Jack,’ she whispered.

I didn’t react in front of the girl. There was no time.

‘We’re at the hospital,’ Wozza said. ‘We’re going to take you inside to get some medical help.’

For a moment, Meg looked startled and then afraid. ‘Mum works here!’ she said, panic in her voice. ‘She doesn’t know … she thinks I stayed at Rachel’s.’

Meg’s mother was one of the first nurses to approach us as we entered the emergency department. Her face, set in the professionally detached way of medical personnel, changed and crumpled the moment she recognised her daughter. Her mouth opened in an O and a primal cry escaped her lips as she ran towards us.

A trolley appeared from nowhere, and Meg was loaded on and wheeled quickly through big double doors into the treatment section. Wozza and I followed the entourage unobtrusively, listening closely to glean anything we could from the medical exchange.

Meg was examined by the doctor on duty, who then called the surgeon. Her bruised hand was wiped clean with an alcohol wipe, then a cannula was inserted. The girl barely flinched.

‘What happened, Meggie?’ said her mother in a trembling voice.