I don’t know if all that is true or not. Some of it is. I know he raped me, but I don’t remember the details very clearly. The dialogue may be reinvented. Perhaps my imagination is working overtime. It was mostly just a blur of pain, struggle and the room spinning. Perhaps they will ask me in court, though I can’t imagine why, and if they do, I suppose I will have to tell them the truth as best I can. But I do remember something I had forgotten. It may mean nothing, but when I caught a glimpse of his forearm, I noticed some numbers tattooed on his skin. I had no idea what they could have been. A telephone number written in blue ballpoint? But I’ve since seen enough films and read enough books to know that it was something like the concentration camp numbers the Nazis used to tattoo on people’s arms. Which is odd, because I don’t think he was Jewish and I thought he grew up over here. But it might mean something to you. At least it’s something that might help to verify my identification, if that’s required. It seemed to me that these numbers were something he wanted to keep secret, but I saw them. I’m just sorry I can’t remember them the way you remember Elvis’s Teen and Twenty Disc Club membership number.

When he had finished, he left me like a rag doll, sprawled there. I hurt all over. I even thought my arm might have been broken. I could hear him talking to someone. I couldn’t make out the words through the fog of pain but I thought I heard him say, “You know you want to. Go on, do your own thing!” Then he laughed. I had forgotten about the other man, the one who’d taken photographs earlier. Maybe I assumed he’d left the room. I don’t know. Most likely I didn’t think about him at all. I had been vaguely aware of occasional sounds in the background. I suppose I must have thought they were coming through the open window. Someone must have put a coin in the machine, because the Laughing Policeman started up from the Pleasure Breach and sounded like he would never stop. I hate that sound to this day.

As I slowly turned myself over and tried to get up, I saw him again, the other man. He was very close to me and he was fumbling with the front of his trousers. I probably screamed or cried out again. I don’t remember. Again I was forced down and again a man forced himself on me, in me, and again I don’t remember much about it.