Читать книгу: «Take It Back», страница 2

Zara’s features were neutral despite the churning she felt inside. ‘What were the others doing?’ she asked gently.

Jodie shook with the effort of a laboured breath. ‘I—I couldn’t see. They were behind me.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap. ‘Hassan pushed me and I fell to the ground. He tore my top and undid my jeans and then … he started.’ Jodie’s features buckled in anguish. ‘He—he came on my face, like Amir.’

Zara closed her eyes for a moment, stemming the weakness knotting in her throat.

Jodie’s words came faster now, as if she needed them said before they broke inside. ‘Hassan turned to Mo and said, “she’s all yours”. Mo said he didn’t want to but they started calling him names and saying he wasn’t man enough, so … he did it too.’ Jodie’s voice cracked, giving it a strange, abrasive texture. ‘Mo has sat next to me in class before. He’s helped me, been kind to me. I begged him to stop, but he didn’t.’ She swallowed a sob, needing to get through this.

Zara listened as the words from Jodie’s mouth fell like black spiders, crawling over her skin and making her recoil. The sensation unnerved her. Part of Zara’s talent as a caseworker was her ability to remain composed, almost dispassionate, in the face of the painful stories told between these walls. Today, the buffer was breached.

‘Jodie.’ Zara swallowed hard to loosen the words. ‘I am so, so sorry for what you went through.’ Her words, though earnest, rang hollow, echoing in a chamber of horror. ‘We’re nearly there. Can you tell me what happened after?’

‘They just left me there.’ Her words held a note of wonder. ‘I wiped everything off me using some old curtains. I tucked my top into my jeans so it wouldn’t keep splitting open and then I walked home.’

‘Did you see anyone on the way? Any passing cars or revellers from the party?’

Jodie shook her head. ‘I stayed off the path. I didn’t want to be seen.’

‘Were you injured at all? Bleeding?’

‘No.’ Jodie took a steady breath, appeased by the simplicity of this back and forth questioning.

‘What time was it when you got home?’

‘I walked for fifteen minutes so around twelve I think.’

‘Did you tell your mum?’

‘Not that night. She was in bed and I let myself in. I went to my bedroom and then I cleaned myself up.’ Jodie pointed at her backpack, a bare and practical navy so she couldn’t be teased for signs of personality. ‘I’ve brought the clothes I was wearing.’

‘Washed?’

‘No. I didn’t want to be stupid like you see on TV.’

Zara blinked. ‘Jodie, nothing you did or didn’t do could be called stupid. Please understand that.’

The girl gathered her perfectly formed hands in her lap but gave no sign of agreement.

‘Did you tell Nina or anyone else what happened?’

‘How could I?’ Jodie’s voice was soft but bitter. ‘How could I tell her that a boy who doesn’t even want her wanted me? How would she ever believe that?’

Zara looked up from her notes. ‘Hey,’ she said, drawing Jodie’s gaze from her lap. ‘No matter what happens, I want you to know that I believe you.’ Zara studied her for a moment, noting the dozen different ways in which she kept control: the tensing of her jowls and the squaring of her jaw, the curl of her fists and feet flattened on the floor. ‘I believe you,’ she repeated.

Fresh tears welled in Jodie’s eyes. ‘So you will help me?’

‘Yes, I will help you.’ Zara watched her wilt with relief. ‘Is there anything else I need to know? Anyone else who was involved?’

‘No. That’s everything.’

Zara drew two lines beneath her notes. She watched Jodie dab at her dripping nose and wondered how a jury would view her. A rape trial usually hinged on power – one person stripping it from another – but in this case, it would be difficult not to consider desire. Zara believed Jodie – had seen too much devious behaviour, met too many appalling men to doubt the young girl’s story – but felt a deep unease at the thought of her facing a jury. Could they imagine four young men wanting to have sex with Jodie even in some twisted gameplay?

Zara reached for her box of tissues and handed a fresh piece to Jodie.

She took it with a quivering hand. ‘What happens now?’

Zara’s lips drew a tight line, a grimace in the guise of a smile. ‘We would like to conduct a medical exam. All our doctors here are female. After that, if you’re ready, we can help you make a formal statement with the police.’

Jodie blanched. ‘Can we go to the police tomorrow? I want to think about it for one more night.’

‘Of course,’ said Zara gently. ‘We can do the exam, store the samples and see how you feel.’

Jodie exhaled. ‘Thank you for being on my side,’ she said, each few syllables halting before the next.

Zara offered a cursory nod.

‘No, I mean it.’ Jodie hesitated. ‘I told you it was hard to be at that party alone. The truth is it’s hard to be anywhere – everywhere – alone.’

Zara leaned forward. ‘You won’t be alone in this – not for any of it.’ She gestured to the door. ‘If you want me in the exam room, I can sit with you.’

Jodie considered this but then shook her head. ‘I’ll be okay.’

Zara led her to the exam room and left her with the forensic medical examiner, a brisk but matronly Scotswoman who ushered Jodie inside. Zara shut the door with a queasy unrest. A small, delinquent part of her hoped that Jodie would change her mind, that she would not subject herself to the disruptive, corrosive justice system that so often left victims bruised. The law stress-tested every piece of evidence and that included the victim – probing, pushing and even bullying until the gaps became apparent.

Beneath her concern, however, she knew that Jodie needed to pursue this. A horrifying thing had happened to her and only the arm of the law could scrub the stain clean and serve justice.

Erin Quinto watched the strange little girl walk to the exit with Zara, her metronomic shuffle almost jaunty in its motion. With unheard words, they said goodbye and Zara headed back to the pit.

‘What’s her story?’ asked Erin.

Zara sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Oh yeah, I’m just a babe in the woods, me.’ Erin laughed, deep and throaty, and followed Zara to her office. Inside, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a manila file. ‘I’ve got something for you guys.’ She placed it on the desk. ‘Can you give this to Stuart when he’s back? It’s the San Telmo financials he was after.’

Zara raised a brow. ‘Of course. I don’t want to know how you got them but thank you.’ She watched Erin, her angular features and lanky limbs clearly poised in thought. With her cropped hair, leather jacket and big dark eyes, she looked like a comic book anti-hero: an anime goth designed to drive a certain type of man wild.

Fittingly, beneath the dark hair and piercings, she was as wily as a snake. It was why Stuart had hired her as an investigator to freelance for Artemis House. It was five years ago and he was in the midst of his first big battle: Lisa Cox against Zifer Pharmaceuticals. The company’s sparkling new epilepsy drug, Koriol, had just hit the market. Alas, no one was told that depression was a rare but possible side effect. When Lisa Cox stepped in front of a moving train, she miraculously escaped without injury. The media went wild, Big Pharma went on the defensive and the Medicine Regulatory Authority denied all wrongdoing. When Lisa decided to sue, she was smeared as a money-hungry whore with little regard for herself or the three children she would have left behind. Lisa lost her job and almost lost her home. She was an inch from surrender when Erin – young, laconic, beautiful – strode into the Whitechapel Road Legal Centre and handed Stuart a file. Inside were memos between regulatory officials and Zifer acknowledging the drug’s dangerous side effects. Stuart couldn’t use the documents legally but a well-timed leak prompted an investigation that not only exonerated Lisa but made her a very wealthy woman.

Stuart immediately offered the mysterious young Erin a job. She refused to take it and instead offered her freelance services pro bono, and now here she was pushing classified documents across a cheap fibreboard desk.

Zara placed the folder in her bottom-right drawer, the place she reserved for sensitive material.

Erin watched her, then asked, ‘Seriously, what’s the girl’s story?’

Zara locked her drawer and set down the key. In a measured tone, she relayed Jodie’s story, recalling the horrors of the story she’d told.

When Zara finished, Erin leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and said, ‘Tell me what you need me to do.’

Zara handed her a piece of paper. ‘Find out everything you can about these boys.’

Erin scanned the handwritten note. ‘Wait.’ She looked up. ‘They’re Muslim?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. You’re telling me that four Muslim boys raped a disabled white classmate?’ Erin whistled softly. ‘The tabloids will have a field day when this gets out – not to mention the Anglican Defence League. Those right-wing nutjobs will besiege anyone that’s brown.’

Zara nodded tensely. ‘That’s a concern, but we can’t be distracted by what could happen or might happen. We need to approach this with a clear head.’

Erin’s features knotted in doubt. She smoothed the note on the desk and traced a finger across the four names. ‘What if I tried talking to one of them?’

Zara held up a hand. ‘No, don’t do that. Leave it to the police.’

‘Screw the police.’ Erin’s voice was heavy with scorn. ‘You think they’re going to get to the heart of this?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘Look, the way I see it, these boys did the crime or they didn’t. Either way, the police are going to fuck it up. You think they can get more information out of these bastards?’

Zara thought for a moment. ‘Fine,’ she ceded. ‘Please just wait until the formal statement. We’ve overstepped the mark before and we can’t do it again.’

Erin’s eyes glinted in the sun. ‘Tell me which one refused to take part.’

‘Farid, but it wasn’t out of sympathy.’

Erin smiled. ‘Yes, but maybe he’ll confess to save his skin. When are you going to the police?’

‘Wednesday. Tomorrow.’

‘Perfect. I’ll scope him out on Thursday.’ Erin slipped the piece of paper into her leather jacket and readied to leave. ‘Four Muslim boys. Well, no one can accuse you of upholding the status quo.’

‘Yeah,’ Zara said dryly. ‘Rock ‘n’ roll.’

The bells of St Alfege Church cut across the quiet, sending birds fleeing across the early evening sky. Canary Wharf shone in the distance – Zara’s favourite feature of her tidy Greenwich flat. She watched from the balcony and raised a joint to her lips. A blanket of warmth clouded around her, loosening the painful knots in her shoulders. Her head felt light but her limbs were heavy, almost sensual in effect. She leaned forward and laid her head on the wrought-iron railings, welcoming relief.

Just as her mind quietened, the doorbell cut through the breeze. Cursing, she snuffed out the joint and stepped back inside. Her flat on the top floor of a converted warehouse was large and bright with creaky old ceiling beams and exposed brickwork. The giant cream corner-sofa sat next to her desk, a sturdy structure of reclaimed oak. Opposite, stood a large bookcase stuffed with legal textbooks next to floor-to-ceiling windows. At the far end of the enormous room was her rarely used kitchen, a modern mix of chrome and glass offset by her giant wooden dining table. In a sea of minimalism, the only signs of personality were her antique lawyer lamp – a graduation gift from her sisters – and five large posters on the western wall depicting headlines from what Zara considered the greatest legal achievements of all time. She padded past them now and opened the door to find Luka outside with two bags filled with takeout.

He smiled sheepishly. ‘You said you missed lunch so I brought you some food.’ His gaze fell to the joint cooling in her hand.

She drew it back. ‘I’ve had a bad day.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’ He gestured inside. ‘Can I come in?’

She held the door ajar.

Luka set the food on the breakfast bar and started to unpack. ‘So why did my beautiful girlfriend have a bad day?’

She baulked. Six months and she still wasn’t used to ‘girlfriend’. They were meant to be casual. He was meant to be a distraction, a mindless and uncomplicated diversion, and yet here he was buying her comfort food and calling her his girlfriend.

She waved a hand. ‘It’s just something at work.’

Luka stopped. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His concern only reminded her that she had told him too much, pulled him too close.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’

He met her gaze, his eyes a stormy green, frustrated by her caginess. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to somehow soften her sharp edges, but opted instead to do nothing. She moved to the dining table and he followed, sitting next to her instead of opposite. We’re closer this way, he had once said. His hand rested on her knee, a subtle non-sexual gesture. She moved her leg so that he fell away. Don’t forget, it warned. She poured a large glass of wine and offered it to him.

He waved it away. ‘I can’t. I’m training for the climb.’

She set the glass on the table, noting the irony of a white man refusing a drink from a Muslim woman. She pushed it towards him. ‘You’ve still got a few weeks before you leave.’

He reached forward and wiped a crumb off her lip. ‘Yes, I do.’ His fingers rested there a moment too long. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He paused. ‘You know what’s happening between us, don’t you, Zara?’

She looked at him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. It was her Ralph Lauren stare: part anxious, part vacant, detached but intense. Was she still playing or not? Even she couldn’t tell anymore.

His dark blond brows knotted in a frown. ‘I know what this is and what this isn’t but …’ He watched her stiffen. ‘I know you don’t feel the same but I need you to know.’

‘Luka—’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ He leaned forward and pulled her into his arms.

Against her instinct, she let him hold her. If she was going to use him as a salve, at least she could let him heal.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

She swallowed hard, as if rising emotion could be curbed at the throat. She held him tight, knowing full well that it was time to let go.

Chapter Two

Zara’s black blazer was stark against the windowless white walls. The fluorescent light reflected off the blue linoleum floor, casting a pallor beneath her eyes. She greeted Detective Constable Mia Scavo, gripping her hand a touch too firmly. In the back of her mind, she tried to remember the writer who said the sight of women greeting each other reminded him of nothing so much as prize fighters shaking hands.

Zara appraised the young detective: the sober manner and formless clothes, the light blonde hair scraped back in a bun. Did she know it only accentuated her cheekbones and brought out her blue eyes?

With greetings safely exchanged, Zara took her seat by the left-hand wall of the interview room: in Jodie’s eyeline but in the background nonetheless. She was here not to interact but to lend support.

Mia began with a short preamble. ‘Jodie, my name is Mia Scavo. I’m a detective constable with the Metropolitan Police. I’ve been a police officer for six years and I work specifically with victims of sexual assault. My job is to support you from today onwards, right to the conclusion of the case.

‘We’re going to start with some formalities and then we will go over your complaint. I don’t know what happened so try to give me as much detail as you can. Our conversation is being recorded on video so it can be used as evidence. It’s important to be as accurate as possible. If you can’t remember something, just tell me. If you want to clarify or correct something at a later date, you can contact me and tell me, okay?’

Jodie nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’ Mia glanced at the two-way mirror. ‘It is Wednesday the third of July 2019. This is DC Scavo interviewing Jodie Wolfe. Also present is Jodie’s independent sexual violence advisor.’ She paused for Zara to confirm her name and began with some basic questions: Jodie’s name, date of birth, address and school. She then eased into the interview, first asking about Jodie’s hobbies and favourite shows on TV, a basic technique to build rapport. After five minutes, she broached the assault and asked her to recount what happened.

Jodie shared the tale of her first real party, of drunken teens and raucous laughter. She spoke of the grinding social embarrassment and how she had fled for air. She described Amir’s footsteps – so evocative they could hear the crunch of gravel. There, frozen in frame by his side, she stopped.

‘What happened next?’ asked Mia.

Jodie hesitated. ‘Amir asked me what I was doing there alone. I said I needed a break.’ She paused. ‘He told me that Nina had left the party and that he could take me to her so I followed him.’

Zara looked up in surprise. This wasn’t the story she had told before. What had happened to Amir’s overtures? ‘Whenever I see you, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.’

Jodie gazed at a burl in the wooden tabletop, not daring to look up at Zara. ‘Amir said that they were having an after-party. He said I wouldn’t normally be allowed to go but since I came with Nina, he’d take me there.’

Zara searched her face for a trace of the lie but she noted nothing.

‘Can you take me through what happened next?’ asked Mia. ‘Take your time and be as detailed as you can.’

Jodie was still for a moment. Her eyes grew narrow and her features creased as if in the midst of a major decision. She took a breath, trembling and thin, and said, ‘He took me to an empty building.’

Jodie’s account segued smoothly to her original. She spoke with a tight discipline but her voice broke in the grooves of the taunts – I ain’t gonna touch ’em if they’re ugly like the rest of you – and she finished in a curtain of tears.

Zara felt a swelling pity. She could see that Jodie was in pain, but also that she was trying so extraordinarily hard to cling onto composure. Perhaps it was no easier for a sixteen-year-old to cry like a child with abandon than it was for someone older.

Mia reached forward and squeezed Jodie’s arm. ‘You’ve been very brave.’

Zara watched the simple act and felt an inexplicable frisson of annoyance.

Mia flipped through her notebook. ‘Jodie, you said the accused were boys from your school. Would you say that you were friends?’

Jodie clutched the cuff of her sleeve. ‘No.’

‘Have you ever been romantically involved with any of them?’

She grimaced. ‘No. Never.’

Mia flipped a page. ‘You said you had one glass of punch with alcohol that night. Had you taken any drugs?’

Jodie shrank into herself, as if she were being blamed. ‘No.’

Mia made a note. ‘Were there drugs at the party?’

‘I think so but I’m not sure.’

‘That’s fine. It’s always right to say you don’t know if you’re unsure.’ Mia continued to flesh out the night in question and then explained what the police would do next: contact witnesses, interview the suspects, visit the scene of the assault, review CCTV footage and examine any DNA. ‘If we can gather enough evidence, we will formally charge the suspects,’ she finished.

The whites of Jodie’s eyes were wide: fear laced perhaps with shock that this was really happening. ‘How long will it take?’ she asked, the words low and timorous.

‘The suspects will be arrested for questioning immediately. After that, we usually work to charge them within three weeks.’

Jodie flinched. ‘Three weeks? But what if I see them in the area?’

‘They won’t be allowed to talk to you,’ assured Mia. ‘They can’t approach you or communicate with you in any way.’ She smiled gently. ‘I know this process is scary but we will be with you every step of the way.’ She nodded at Zara. ‘You will hear from me or your caseworker when we have an update.’

‘Thank you.’ Jodie stood unsteadily and said goodbye after final formalities.

Outside, Zara led Jodie to her car. Then, in a tone that was perfectly neutral, said, ‘Jodie, I noticed a small anomaly in the interview. Can we talk about it?’

The girl frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When you spoke to me initially, you said you went with Amir because he wanted to kiss you. In the interview just now, you said it was because he was going to take you to Nina. Were you confused?’ Zara watched her weigh her options, a lightning-quick process of elimination.

Jodie slumped in her seat. ‘I couldn’t tell them what he said. How would they believe that Amir said that? Or that I believed him?’

Zara blinked in surprise. ‘Jodie, you must tell the truth, no matter how unsavoury. Your statement will be examined by the prosecution. If they find a single hole, they will grab it and tear it as large as they can. We need to tell Mia the truth before it gets any further.’

Jodie shook her head. ‘Please, Zara. I can’t stand up and tell the world that I wanted him to kiss me. I can’t. How would that ever be the reason I went with him?’ She pressed the dashboard to emphasise her plea and left small and sweaty fingerprints on the textured grey surface. ‘Please don’t make me do this.’

Zara held up a hand. ‘Look, I can’t make you go in and tell her but I strongly advise that you do.’

Jodie’s voice was unsteady. ‘I’m sorry I lied but it’s such a small thing. It doesn’t change anything else.’

Zara grimaced. ‘That’s the thing, Jodie. It could change something. You’ve got to get your story straight in your head. Those who tell the truth don’t need to rely on memory.’

‘That’s the only thing, I swear,’ she promised.

‘I hope so, Jodie. I really do.’ Zara started the car, the soft thrum sounding her surrender.

They wove through roads lined with building works, past shiny promotional boards touting luxury two-and three-bedroom apartments the locals couldn’t afford. You could tell which streets were really gentrified: they had a flank of Boris bikes standing sentry on the pavement. Of course, there was no such offering on the Wentworth Estate where row after row of four-storey buildings stood a nose width away from each other. Communal balconies ran the length of the dark-brick buildings, peppered with soggy clothes and the rusting sequins of satellite dishes.

Zara felt a pang of guilt as she parked her Audi on the concourse. ‘I’d like to talk to your mother,’ she told Jodie.

‘I—’ Jodie hesitated. ‘My mother isn’t really in a condition to talk about this right now.’ Her tone was neutral but Zara caught the tremor beneath.

‘That’s why it’s important for me to talk to her. You’re sixteen and your mum needs to understand what’s happening so that she can provide the support you need.’

Jodie shook her head. ‘I’m just so tired. Please, another day.’

Zara studied her for a moment. ‘Okay, fine,’ she said slowly, confused by Jodie’s reticence. ‘But call me if you need anything.’ She unlocked the doors and watched Jodie shuffle across the concourse. She appeared on the first-floor balcony and after a brief pause, opened a door and went inside.

Zara switched on the air conditioning and dabbed at her brow, careful not to smudge her makeup. She felt a wiry sense of unease and instinctively reached for her bag, a tan Céline tote preserved from her days in chambers. She glanced up at Jodie’s flat, then took out a brown glass bottle. She shook it once to gauge the number of pills inside. Satisfied with the dull clink of a healthy supply, she lay it on her lap for later. Calmed by the soft weight resting against her legs, she put the car in gear and moved smoothly off.

Jodie closed the door, lifting the handle as she pushed it back. She hated the long whine of the hinge for the way it announced that she was home; the way it would draw her mother to the corridor, can in hand and scowl fixed on.

Sure enough, Christine Wolfe shuffled from the living room, white-blonde hair in a mane of tangles. She regarded Jodie for a moment. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, her tone already angry.

Jodie felt her nerve desert her. She had hoped to do this on her own terms: in the living room by the TV with a fresh can of Scrumpy and a cushion on the table for her mother’s feet – the happiest Christine Wolfe would ever be. Instead, Jodie stood between the chipped grey walls, caught like a deer in the headlights.

‘Well?’ Her mother stepped forward, the low light casting shadows on her face.

Jodie swallowed. ‘Police station.’ She said it blankly, without emotion as if it were a fact that could not have been changed.

Her mother jolted in shock. ‘You went to the police with your story?’ The bluish whites of her eyes grew wide.

Jodie felt the sting of her mother’s doubt. ‘Mum, it’s not a story.’

Christine smacked her palm against the wall. ‘Like you ain’t punished me enough?’ Her raspy voice struggled to climb. ‘What’d I do to deserve you?’

Jodie flinched. The snarl still hurt after years of wear. She knew what was coming next.

‘I was happy,’ said Christine. ‘And then you came along. Your father took one look at you and fucked off out the door – and I let him go ’cause of you.’

Jodie remained calm, knowing that her features in anguish would anger her mother further. ‘Mum, please. It’s the truth.’

‘I can’t fucking believe this. You’re telling me the police will be here asking questions?’

Jodie recognised the stirrings of a storm. The best thing to do was retreat but her mother stood between her and her room, simmering now in fury. Tears would provoke her further so Jodie stood still and listened.

‘You’re telling me I have to talk to the pigs? I ain’t tellin’ them nothin’.’ She threw up a hand in disgust. ‘Why does every fuckin’ thing always come down to me? This is your story, Jodie. This is your mess. Jesus Christ. I clothe you and feed you and take you to all your fuckin’ appointments. Do you know how much them bus fares cost?’ Christine smacked the wall again. ‘I do everything round here and you’re gonna stand there and tell me I have to do this too? I ain’t talkin’ to no pigs. They can fuck off. You hear me? They can fuck right off.’ She scowled. ‘Why couldn’t you just talk to your teachers like any other normal girl? Why’d you have to go to the pigs like some kind of idiot?’

Christine Wolfe was angry at Jodie, but angrier still at life, using the first to rail against the second. The indignity of it was too much. Unemployment. Alcoholism. Poverty. The stench of failure and being unable to climb out from under it. It was all too much. The only thing you could do was surrender and Jodie’s resoluteness made her livid. You couldn’t stand up to life. It would always beat you down. She shouted this at Jodie, hopelessly angry at her ugly, stolid face, needing something or someone to blame.

When the wind finally blew from her rage, she jabbed a finger at Jodie. ‘I ain’t havin’ no part in this,’ she warned. ‘You’re on your own, you hear me?’ Can in hand, she shuffled to the living room. ‘You’re on your fuckin’ own,’ she called back as she sank to her spot by the TV and propped her feet up on the table.

Jodie felt the adrenaline drain, leaving her hot and empty. She was motionless for a moment to make sure the rage had calmed. Then, she leaned against a wall and placed two hands over her head, not quite touching the scalp, the way she used to as a child pretending to wear a knight’s mail armour. The tiny rings of metal were extraordinary in deflecting pain. These were, after all, just words. She stood like that for a long while, working through the words, letting them bounce off her. Only a few remained by the time she reached her room: you’re on your own, they said. You are on your own.

Zara leaned on the kitchen counter, still drowsy from the Diazepam. Some days, the pills brought her peace, on others, only senseless fog. Often, she craved something stronger but was too wedded to her past and the sensible, overachieving version of herself to screw up her life that badly. The first time she tried cocaine, in an illicit huddle at a Bar Council conference, it was like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz. All the myth and notoriety, the unfettered hyperbole, crumbled in the face of reality. Instead of the giddy, addictive rush of lore, she just felt alert and happy. It was almost anodyne in effect. And so she tried it again, this time with a peer at a party, and came to appreciate the sense of wellbeing. And so she tried it again – and that’s when she understood how addiction took hold. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that fused you to your poison but a mellow descent into its seductive grip. That was the last time she touched it. East London didn’t need yet another junkie.

She poured herself a glass of water and drank it without pausing. The doorbell rang and she remembered that Luka said he would visit. She placed the glass down next to the Diazepam and let him in with a smile.

He kissed her lips, noting the lazy curve of her mouth. He raised the bottle in his hands. ‘Colorado’s finest Syrah,’ he said with a grin, knowing that Zara liked it despite what she said about American wine. He walked to the kitchen and placed it on a counter, his gaze catching on the bottle of pills. He exhaled slowly. ‘I thought you were going to stop.’

She blinked. ‘I am. When I’m ready.’

He turned to her with a sigh. His right index finger tapped against his leg the way it did when he was lost in thought: two quavers with a rest in between. ‘Zara, it’s not even seven. You’re taking pills in the afternoon now?’