‘I didn’t say you were,’ I reply, wishing I had a tenner for every time I’d heard the same thing said by wives and girlfriends with bloodied faces and bruised limbs, who didn’t see themselves as victims but as strong, independent women, who would never let a man beat them … until they do.
‘I have to ask you a series of questions,’ I say. ‘If your answer to any one of them is yes, then you should think about whether your relationship with your partner is healthy.’
Tempe laughs bitterly. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
‘Are you frightened of him?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Do you fear injury or violence?’
Again nothing, but I don’t expect or need a response.
‘Is this the first time that he’s hit you?’ I ask.
‘You asked me that already. Twice.’
I rattle off more questions. ‘Is the abuse happening more often? Is it more extreme? Does he try to control everything you do? Do you feel isolated from friends and family? Does he constantly text or call or harass you? Is he excessively jealous? Has he ever attempted to strangle or choke you? Has he ever threatened to kill you?’
Tempe lets each query wash over her without comment, but I know that she’s listening.
A nurse calls her name. She’s taken to an examination room where fresh white paper has been rolled across the bed. A young Asian doctor appears, wearing green scrubs and showing the tiredness of a long shift. She asks Tempe questions about her age and height and weight and medical history, before telling her to get undressed behind the screen. ‘This is a rape kit. I need to take a few swabs.’
‘But I wasn’t raped,’ says Tempe.
The doctor looks at me. ‘I thought …’
‘No,’ I answer, glancing at Tempe to make doubly sure. ‘I was worried about her cheekbone.’
The doctor asks Tempe to sit up straight and shines a pen-torch into her right eye. Her left has closed completely.
‘Any blurred vision?’
Tempe shakes her head. The doctor moves the torch from side to side, then up and down.
‘Any headaches?’
‘One big one.’
She touches Tempe’s swollen cheek and runs her fingers over her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose.
‘I don’t think you’ve fractured a cheekbone and your eye socket is intact, but that’s going to be one ugly bruise.’
‘How long before the swelling goes down?’ asks Tempe.
‘If you keep it iced – twenty-four hours.’
Tempe looks aghast. ‘But I have meetings. If I don’t work …’
‘Maybe you could hide it with make-up,’ I suggest.
‘Or put a bag over my head,’ she replies sarcastically.
The doctor peels off her latex gloves. ‘I’ll write a script for painkillers. Keep up the icing until the swelling goes down.’
I wait for Tempe to complete the necessary paperwork, before escorting her through the waiting area.
‘I’m obliged to give you this,’ I say, handing her a tear-out form with four pages of information. ‘If you sign here, I can give your details to a support agency.’
‘I’m not signing anything,’ says Tempe. ‘I won’t be making a statement and I don’t need a chaperone.’
‘I understand, but this report will be given to the Local Safeguarding Unit. Someone will be in touch with you.’
‘I don’t want to be contacted. I don’t give my permission.’
We are outside the hospital. A group of orderlies are smoking and vaping near the doors, standing in a patch of sunshine that illuminates their exhalations. Tempe lowers her head, not wanting anyone to see her face.
‘This is a number for the National Domestic Abuse Helpline,’ I say. ‘Like I said, I’m not judging you, but I don’t think you should go back to the apartment. Not today. Give him some time to cool off.’
Tempe bites the undamaged side of her bottom lip and contemplates an answer.
‘I’ll go to the shelter,’ she whispers. ‘For one night.’
The large detached house is in the back streets of Brixton and has no outwards signs or identifiers, apart from the extra security of barred windows and a CCTV camera covering the entrance. As we approach, I notice a child standing at an upstairs window. A girl. I wave. She doesn’t wave back.
The intercom sends a jingle echoing through distant rooms.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a woman’s voice.
I hold up my warrant card to the camera and give my name and rank. ‘Do you have room for one more?’
‘Won’t be a tick,’ says the voice.
We wait another minute until the twin deadlocks turn and the door swings open on creaky hinges. A large woman smiles and ushers us quickly inside, checking the street before locking the door again.
‘Call me Beth,’ she says, in a no-nonsense voice. ‘First names only in here. Cassie is upstairs with another new arrival – a mum and two kiddies. The little boy is a doll.’
We climb. She talks. Tempe’s room has a single bed, a wardrobe and a sink in the corner. The furniture looks like something from a motorway Travelodge, but everything is clean, with cheerful touches like the colourful prints on the walls and a small vase of flowers on the windowsill.
‘You’ll be sharing the other facilities,’ says Beth. ‘We have a laundry room downstairs and a secure garden. The kitchen is a busy area, but you’re allowed to prepare your own meals. We have a cleaning roster for the communal areas.’ She ties back the curtains. ‘Do you have any other clothes?’
‘No.’
‘We have a pool clothing system. Nothing fancy, but you’ll find something that fits you.’
She puts a set of sheets on the mattress, along with a pillow-case.
‘Spare blankets are on the top shelf.’ She points to the wardrobe. ‘Once you’re settled, come downstairs and we’ll fill out the admission forms.’
‘I won’t be staying long,’ says Tempe, glancing at me.
‘Makes no difference. It’s the protocol. You’ll have to fill in a Housing Benefit form and sign your licence agreement. I’ll also give you a copy of the house rules.’
‘There are rules?’
‘No visitors, no alcohol, no drugs, no bullying, no threatening staff. I’ll be your support worker. We can have a session once you’re signed in.’
‘I told you, I’m not staying,’ says Tempe, even more adamant.
‘Give it a chance,’ I say.
Beth looks at her face and clucks sympathetically. ‘I’ll get you some ice.’ She has one hand on the door handle. ‘Is he looking for you?’
Tempe doesn’t answer.
‘Don’t tell anyone where you are. This is a secure address. We have mothers and children who finally feel safe. We want to keep it that way.’
My phone pings. Nish has sent me a text:
You should get back here ASAP.
‘It’s all right, you can leave,’ says Tempe.
Halfway down the stairs, my shoulder radio squawks. ‘Mike Bravo 471, this is Control, are you receiving?’
‘This is Mike Bravo 471, go ahead, over.’