‘I’m really sorry about the weekend. Will I see you on Friday?’
Aziz’s voice only worsened the pain. Fortunately he had been busy with an exam this last weekend, and he had another one coming up soon. She wanted to give him an answer, curt and dismissive, but her mouth was dry and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
‘Rose? Is something wrong?’ he asked from his mobile in Copenhagen.
‘No, nothing,’ she finally managed to say. Happy and cheerful was her mantra. Happy and cheerful, so that he doesn’t find out anything.
‘I miss you,’ he said again. ‘I think about you all the time.’
She had to sit down and press a cushion against her stomach to stop herself from screaming out loud. She hurt all over. But the bruises were the worst. He would notice them. No, what was worse was the feeling of other hands, other lips. She felt like the names they had called her.
‘I fell,’ she said on a sudden impulse.
‘Fell? How?’
‘Down the stairs.’
A silence followed. He is working it out, she thought. He will make me tell him. He will force all the details out of me. She could sense his thoughts and fears. She was also aware that he was afraid to reveal them, perhaps not even voice them to himself.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Covered in bruises. That’s all.’
This is where he clicks, she thought in the silence that followed. He is visualising the images. He can see their hands on my body. He can see them cutting my clothes to shreds. He can see their bodies on top of mine, in a muddy park. He can hear the words spoken through clenched jaws as zips are opened and buttons pop like popcorn.
‘I should have been there,’ he said. ‘I should always be with you.’
She felt a lump in her throat. She didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘You need to finish your course. That’s important. I’ll be fine.’
‘I could skip Friday and come to see you Thursday night,’ he offered.
He wants to see me, she thought. He wants to pull me into the light, see the bruises, look into my eyes and then he will make me tell him the truth.
She was shaking. She drew up her legs and pressed the cushion against her stomach. She would give anything to be close to him and yet she couldn’t think of anything worse. How could she ever be with him again? How would she ever manage that?
‘That’s probably not a good idea,’ she forced herself to say. ‘I’m a bit behind with my studies. I’ve got so much reading to do.’
‘Friday, then,’ he insisted.
‘Friday, yes. Friday’s better.’
Otherwise he would start to get really suspicious. Perhaps she might be able to camouflage her injuries. Perhaps she could manage that by then.
Another sudden inspiration brought a question to the fore. ‘Your sister, Nazleen. Would it be possible to meet her again? I’d like that.’
‘Why?’ he asked with circumspection.
‘I just want to get to know her a bit better. I know she doesn’t approve of us being together, but she does love you. It would be good to meet her.’
In the silence she could hear his doubts.
‘I don’t know,’ he said after a while. ‘She might not be interested. She can be very stubborn.’ His voice had a smile to it now.
‘But she might be curious all the same. You could give me her mobile number. She does have a mobile, doesn’t she? All she can say is no.’
He gave her the number, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and they finished their conversation.
For a long time she sat staring at the number. There had to be a ray of light somewhere, a way out, but right now she was finding it hard to see anything other than the pain and the shame and the feeling of being soiled, even though she had just had a shower and changed her clothes. They meant well, her mum and Bo, even John Wagner and the medical examiner. But they couldn’t help her. No one could help her, not even Aziz. Especially not Aziz.
She crushed the paper with the number on it and hurled it across the room. It landed on the bookcase and slipped behind. It was irrelevant.