I pull my chair alongside her and read the scanned handwritten document. The author, Lilah Hooper, aged twenty-eight, was attacked as she arrived home after a night shift.
I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. I thought a fuse might have tripped. I called for Trevor, my dog, who usually made a fuss when I came home. I heard him whimpering from the bedroom and knew something was wrong.
The fuse box is in the kitchen. I keep a torch beneath the sink and a box of candles. I should have used my phone, but I didn’t think. As I reached into the cupboard, I heard someone behind me. Before I could react, he pulled a pillowcase over my head and shoved me onto the floor. He was kneeling on my back, dragging my hands behind me. I felt the rope winding around my wrists and arms. One loop went around my neck. When he pulled tighter, I couldn’t breathe. I kept begging him to let me go, but he didn’t say anything, not a word, but every time I made a sound, he tightened the ropes, cutting off my air.
I must have blacked out because when I woke again, I was lying on the bed, naked, with the pillowcase still over my head and more ropes around my arms and legs. I managed to roll off the bed and kick at the walls until my neighbour heard me.
Lilah had spent nine hours bound and gagged. Mitchell Coates lived upstairs. He freed Lilah, called the police and accompanied her to the hospital. Mitch wasn’t named as a suspect until weeks later, when Lilah amended her statement, saying she recognised how her attacker smelled because she had slept with Mitch once, calling it a ‘drunken one-night stand’。 The police claimed this was the motive for the attack.
I can picture how the investigation unfolded. Eighty per cent of all sexual assaults are committed by people who are known to the victim. Friends. Acquaintances. Neighbours. Ex-partners. Family members. Mitch would have come under suspicion immediately because he had access to Lilah’s flat. He fed her dog. He left her door unlocked because she often forgot her key. His DNA was discovered on the pillowcase and other bedding. His fingerprints were in her bedroom and elsewhere in the flat. He admitted to watching Lilah’s TV when she was working, because she owned a flat screen, and he felt sorry for her dog.
Clara checks her phone. ‘I have to go. I’m not allowed to leave you here.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I met this guy. He says he’s innocent.’
She laughs. ‘They all do.’
‘Yeah, but my friend thinks he might be telling the truth.’
‘And she’s never wrong?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How did the shopping go?’ I ask, when I find Evie curled up in a corner of the sofa, watching TV, while playing a game on her phone. Multi-tasking in the digital age.
‘Fine,’ she says.
This is her universal reply and could mean that she almost died, or that she had the most amazing day of her life, or anything in between.
‘Did you buy a dress?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dresses are stupid.’
‘What about your job?’
‘What do you care?’ she snaps. ‘You didn’t want me working at a bar.’
Something must have happened, but Evie won’t talk about it. If I press her too hard, she’ll accuse me of prying, or nagging, or not trusting her. This is the tightrope I walk when I offer her advice, balancing my desire to protect her with giving her the space to make her own mistakes and to learn from them.
Tonight is ‘takeout Tuesday’， which is happening on a Wednesday because Evie wasn’t talking to me last night. Once a week we order Uber-Eats and explore different cuisines. The foremost attraction of takeout Tuesday is that Evie doesn’t have as much to clean up. Again, I pick my battles.
‘What are we having tonight?’ I ask.
‘Fish and chips.’
‘That’s not exactly international cuisine.’
‘Fish don’t have borders.’
‘Did you have fish suppers in Albania?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you have a favourite dish?’
‘No.’
The tone of voice is clear. She doesn’t want me prying.
When the fish and chips arrive, we eat off the paper, which is ‘traditional’， according to Evie, but also means fewer plates to wash. The silence weighs on both of us. Normally, Evie has two verbal settings – one-word answers, or stream of consciousness monologues that seem to require her breathing through her ears.
Suddenly, she breaks.
‘I couldn’t find a dress that I liked. One that didn’t make me feel like some man’s fantasy, or make me feel self-conscious, or that people would be staring at me.’
‘I see.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you have something else to say?’
‘No.’
Poppy is sitting patiently, waiting for a chip. Evie drops one on the floor.
I make a comment about Labradors being prone to putting on weight and Evie accuses me of fat-shaming her dog.
‘Do you have to wear a dress?’ I ask.
‘He said something classy.’
‘Want me to help you?’
‘No, I’ll look for another job.’
I can’t tell if she wants me to change her mind or agree with her. Instead, I choose another subject.
‘Elias is coming this weekend for a day trip. Rampton sent me an email. He’ll be chaperoned by two members of staff. You don’t have to be here.’
She looks at me sideways. ‘Do I embarrass you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why can’t I meet him? You said he was better.’
I did say that, but I don’t know if I could make the same words form in my mouth. The closer it gets to Elias’s release, the less certain I am that I want him back in my life. I have counselled people in my situation. I have told them that forgiveness can be cathartic and set them free. Hatred, bitterness and animosity can disappear, like a weight that is lifted from their hearts. At the same time, forgiveness can be premature. It can protect someone from the absolute horror of what they’ve done. Instead of being a form of grace, it becomes a disguise, a panacea, not a cure.
‘Is that your phone?’ asks Evie.
It is ringing from the hallway table.
Lenny’s name lights up the screen.
‘Have the police been in contact?’ she asks.
‘You are the police.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Cyrus. You knew Maya Kirk.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your name came up in her recent contacts.’
18
Cyrus
Lenny’s bungalow was built in the 1930s and backs on to Colwick Wood, a local nature reserve in the east of the city. Her husband Nick answers the door wearing an apron that looks like it belongs to a child because he’s a big lumbering man with forearms like a pro wrestler. He’s also the hairiest man in the world, according to Lenny, which is why she calls him ‘Bear’。
Nick is older by fifteen years and recently retired. He’s taken up brewing beer, which Lenny complains about because their garage reeks of fermenting hops, but she’s one of those women who complains with such softness and motherly chagrin that I know she’s not properly angry. She would forgive Nick almost anything except infidelity or murder, and I’m not sure about the second one.