I stop. It’s like looking over a cliff edge. He had a knife, I say.

Take your time, Emma. I know how hard this must be, Sergeant Willan says gently.

I can’t bear to look at Simon but I force myself to go on. He said if I told anyone—the police, my boyfriend—he’d know and send out the video. And that phone was a work phone, it has everyone stored on it. My boss. My whole company. My family.

There’s something else…I’m afraid we have to ask, DI Clarke says apologetically. Is there any possibility this man could have left any DNA behind? On the bed, perhaps? Or the clothes you were wearing?

I shake my head.

You understand the question, don’t you, Emma? Sergeant Willan says. We’re asking if Deon Nelson ejaculated.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Simon clench his fists.

He held my nose, I say in a tiny voice. He held my nose and made me swallow. He said it all had to go, every bit, to stop the police getting any DNA. So I knew there was no point. No point in telling you. I’m sorry.

Now I do manage to look at Simon. I’m sorry, I repeat.

There’s another long silence.

In your previous statement, Emma, DI Clarke says gently, you told us you couldn’t remember exactly what occurred during the breakin. Just so we understand, can you explain in your own words why you said that to us?

I wanted to forget it had happened, I say. I didn’t want to admit I was too scared to tell anyone. I was ashamed.

I start to cry now. I didn’t want to have to tell Simon, I say.

There’s a crash. Simon has thrown his coffee cup at the wall. Shards of white pottery and brown liquid explode across the pale stone. Simon, wait, I say desperately. But he’s already gone.

Drying my eyes on my sleeve, I say, Will you be able to use this? To convict him, I mean?

Once again they exchange glances. It’s a difficult situation, Sergeant Willan says. Juries expect DNA evidence these days. And it’s impossible to identify the suspect absolutely from the video—he’s careful never to show his face, or the knife.

She pauses. Plus we’re obliged to disclose to the defense that you initially said you couldn’t remember. They may try to spin that, I’m afraid.

You said there were other phones, I say dully. Won’t those women be able to give evidence?

We suspect he did to others exactly what he did to you, DI Clarke says. Offenders—particularly sexual offenders—tend to develop a pattern over time. They repeat what works and discard what doesn’t. They even get a kick out of repeating themselves—turning what they do into a kind of ritual. But unfortunately, we haven’t been able to trace those other victims yet.

You mean, none of them reported it, I say, seeing the implication. His threat worked and they kept quiet.

It looks that way, DI Clarke says. Emma, I understand why you didn’t tell anyone before. But it’s important we get an accurate account of what happened. Will you come into the station and update your previous statement for us?

I nod miserably. He picks up his jacket. Thank you for being honest with us, he says kindly. I know how difficult this must be. But understand this. According to the law any kind of forced sex, including forced oral sex, is rape. And that’s what we’re going to charge this man with.

—

Simon’s gone over an hour. I spend the time picking up bits of broken mug and scrubbing the wall clean. Like a whiteboard, I think. Except that what’s been written here can’t be erased.

When he does come back I scrutinize his face, trying to figure out his mood. His eyes are red and it looks like he’s been crying.

I’m sorry, I say miserably.

Why, Em? he says quietly. Why didn’t you tell me?

I thought you’d be angry.

You mean, you thought I wouldn’t be sympathetic? He looks bewildered as well as upset. You thought I wouldn’t care?

I don’t know, I say. I didn’t want to think about it. I was—I was ashamed. It was so much easier just to pretend it didn’t happen. And I was scared.

Jesus, Em, he shouts. I know I can be a bit of an idiot sometimes but do you really think I wouldn’t care?

No…I messed up, I say miserably. I couldn’t talk to you about it. I’m sorry.

It’s like Monkford said. Deep down you think I’m a prick.

What does Monkford have to do with it?

He gestures at the floor, the beautiful stone walls, the dramatic double-height void. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because I’m not good enough for you. Because our old flat wasn’t good enough.

This isn’t about you, I say dully. And anyway, I don’t think that.

Suddenly he shakes his head and I can see his anger’s gone as quickly as it arrived. He says, If you’d only told me.

The police think he may get off, I say. I reckon I might as well get all the bad news out now.

He’s like, What?

They didn’t actually say so. But because I’ve changed my evidence, and no other women have come forward, they clearly think he might get away with it. They said maybe there’s no point in pursuing it.

Oh no, he says, balling his fists and banging them down on the stone table. I promise you this, Emma. If that creep gets acquitted, I’ll kill him myself. And I know his name now. Deon Nelson.