The police were here. All I could think was, my God, we were all so drunk, and Cassie had been up to something, and we looked so guilty. All of us just looked guilty as hell. And I found myself remembering that night back in 1996, the night Martha Rasby died, and feeling that same mixture of fear and shame and terrible, crushing guilt.

They were very kind. I even knew the DC, who’d come to give a talk to the women at the refuge a few months ago. It was hard to say who was more embarrassed, him or me. They were good at handling the situation. I’d expected, I don’t know – some kind of brutish denial that Karen could possibly have been attacked, here with her friends. Instead they took her away, efficient and serious. There was a sexual assault centre in Maidstone, I knew. I remembered writing something about the new centres, never imagining they’d fall within the sphere of my own life. They’d be doing tests and taking swabs and . . . my mind failed. It kept trying to grasp what had happened, and feeling it slip away. After a brief statement, I saw them lead her out, from where I still sat on the decking, and I tried to go with her. She was my best friend. Of course I had to go. ‘Wait! She’ll need someone with her.’

Karen’s eyes grazed mine, frightened, wide. ‘Not her!’ Her voice was hoarse. I reeled back as if I’d been slapped.

Bill was there, quietly helpful, gathering his jacket. ‘I’ll go. If that’s OK.’

She bit her lip, reaching out an arm for him. There was a murmured discussion among the officers, and it seemed to be agreed that Bill could go if he didn’t discuss the case with Karen. He was a witness; we all were. I wondered what he’d said on the phone, if he’d repeated Karen’s allegation. I watched, shivering, as they went down the drive – the lawn had been taped off, a crime scene – an officer holding Karen up like someone who’d been in a terrible accident. There was still a smear of blood on her thigh, red against the white of her skin. I felt the loss of Bill, and remembered it had always been that way, that his presence was a balm, making any situation bearable, calm, friendly.

That was a while ago. I’d lost my sense of time, but I knew it was light outside, so a few hours had passed since what happened. We were in the living room now, the DC and me, and I was shaking with cold and shock, thinking about wrapping myself in the blue wool throw on the back of the sofa, wondering if that might look bad. Like I was selfish, only thinking of myself. ‘Will she be OK? Karen? What will happen now?’