Praise for Kia Abdullah

‘A superb legal thriller that fairly crackles with tension’

Guardian

‘A topical and gritty story’

Observer

‘Just as impressive as the courtroom drama is Abdullah’s portrayal of five deftly differentiated British-Asian families, and of the relationship between two disparate women who both become isolated pariahs’

Sunday Times

‘A thought-provoking and sparklingly intelligent novel, with the welcome bonus of an unguessable ending’

Daily Telegraph

‘A fresh and compelling read’

Sunday Post

‘With razor-sharp insight into the lives of her characters, Kia Abdullah gives readers much more than a courtroom thriller’

Christina Dalcher, Sunday Times bestselling author of VOX

‘Taut, gritty and compelling’

Louise Jensen, million-copy bestselling author of The Sister

‘Intense, shocking and so real you can literally feel its heartbeat … the best book I’ve read this year’

Lisa Hall, author of The Perfect Couple

‘Kia’s novel is an excellent addition to the court-based criminal dramas we’ve come to love … It’s a great read and draws you in with fast pacing and real characters’

Nazir Afzal OBE, Former Chief Crown Prosecutor, CPS

‘I was blown away by Take It Back. From the explosive premise to the shockingly perfect ending, I loved every word’

Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice

‘Brave and shocking, a real welcome addition to the crime thriller genre. Kia’s is a fresh voice and a thrilling novel’

Alex Khan, author of Bollywood Wives

KIA ABDULLAH is a novelist and travel writer from London. She has written for The New York Times, the Guardian and the Telegraph, and is the author of Take It Back, named one of the best thrillers of the year by the Guardian and the Telegraph.

Kia frequently contributes to the BBC commenting on a variety of issues affecting the British-Asian community and is the founder of Asian Booklist, a site that helps readers discover new books by British-Asian authors. Kia also runs Atlas & Boots, a travel blog read by 250,000 people a month. For more information about Kia and her writing, visit her website at kiaabdullah.com, or follow her at @KiaAbdullah on Instagram and Twitter.

Also by Kia Abdullah

Take It Back

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Kia Abdullah 2020

Kia Abdullah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008314743

Version 2020-08-19

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008314729

For my little sis, Shafia

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part II

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Part I

Chapter One

The Hadid family was an effortful one. Even minor occasions and trivial achievements were marked with a rigid persistence. Birthday cards arrived precisely on the day in question, except on Sundays when they would tip through the letterbox one day early. Wedding anniversaries were marked not only by the couple concerned but the entire extended family, great blooms of pink mandevilla arriving in steady procession. Lavish bouquets were dispatched routinely: congratulatory lilies for passing a test, good-luck orchids for a summer job, get-well roses for a lightweight cold. These gifts were cordially acknowledged with thank-you notes, each of which then garnered a phone call; a three-act play that ran on repeat.

Family news was issued systematically to ensure that everyone received an update. When Kamran interviewed at Oxford and his mother forgot to tell an aunt, she took it as a personal slight and needled them for weeks.

Kamran understood that his family made sense of the world through this codified means of connection, so when his housemaster pointed at a bouquet of flowers, instead of feeling pleasure, he only felt a sense of duty. He collected it with resignation, the sturdy ceramic pot held securely against a hip, then thanked the master and headed back to the third floor, his footsteps echoing off the wood-panelled walls.

At seventeen, Kamran was a senior and no longer had to share his room, unlike the boys in lower years. He set down the flowers on his desk, a Victorian construction of quarter-sawn oak. He opened a drawer, shaking it free of its mahogany boxing, and took out a piece of paper. Hampton’s coat of arms was printed along the top, a golden lion on a royal blue shield with the words Alere Flammam Veritatis inscribed underneath. To feed the flame of truth.

Kamran’s mother insisted that he use official stationery when writing to their relatives. She was of second-generation wealth, garnered by her father’s steelwork business, but aspired to older money – hence Kamran’s enrolment at Hampton College followed by his brother, Adam.

Set in a sprawling wooded estate, the boarding school was eight miles west of their family home: a stucco townhouse in Belsize Park where the boys were received each break like kings. Sometimes they would arrive on a Friday to find the house filled to the brim. Kamran and Adam would swap a glance before slipping into character of ‘the two good sons’.

When greeting his uncles and aunts, Kamran would recall second-hand reports of other Asian families: their raucous laughter and flavoursome food, brash debates that verged on rude. He had seen the evidence on Instagram Live: brothers jostling over the last piece of chicken, set to a mother’s gentle chiding, cut by a father’s sterner scolding. Together, they sounded like family. The Hadids in comparison were more composed; a little more ‘clenched’, a friend once said.

Kamran’s mother, Sofia, was obsessed with saving face. A great beauty at the age of forty-six, she had a laughably strict style of dress: slim chinos that tapered at the ankle, tailored tops with navy-and-white stripes, structured jackets with embellished buttons, complemented by pearls or diamonds but never both in tandem. Her dark hair fell in coiffured curls, framing her fine-boned features.

Kamran could tell that she was proud of them in the fussy way she arranged them for pictures: Kamran to the right, Adam to the left and herself ensconced in the middle. There was a neat symmetry to these photos: the brothers an identical five feet ten and their mother three inches shorter. It was strange to define a family this way – well groomed – but he couldn’t deny it; he too liked the way they looked.

Kamran bore a clear resemblance to their mother: fine features with high cheekbones and a delicate, elegant jawline. Adam, at sixteen, took after their father with his large, heavy-lidded eyes and lips that were overtly full next to Kamran’s more subtle appeal. Their mother liked nothing more than showing them off at weddings, her only regret that she had named her sons the wrong way around.

‘You should have been Adam,’ she would say to Kamran. After all, didn’t ‘Adam and Kamran’ flow off the tongue more smoothly than ‘Kamran and Adam’? It annoyed her, this slight hitch in their naming, especially as she had spent so long selecting ones that kept to Islamic tradition but could also pass for Western.

Still, she couldn’t be prouder of them – a fact she shared with a finely tuned mix of vanity and humility. Seeing her spar with an aunt was akin to watching ballet. Sofia might start with a passing comment, a reference, say, to Kamran’s interview at Oxford.

Aunty Rana, their father’s sister, would reply with a lament on fees. ‘But it was worth it,’ she would say with a shrug. ‘Yusuf did after all get a First and look where he is now.’

Sofia would volley back, ‘Fees are certainly annoying. We’re not made of money after all. I hate it when people assume that. Take Mack’s Jag. He works so hard but just because he drives a Roadster, the garage assumes he’s dripping with cash.’

A tight laugh from Rana. ‘Why doesn’t he take it to the official factory? That’s what Aadil does.’

The children would watch these contests with tense amusement. Perhaps this is why they received such frequent congratulation. Their smallest achievements were shamelessly embellished – a keen swimmer recast as an Olympic hopeful, a piano recital hailed virtuosic. Neither side wanted to seem ungracious and so they bestowed each triumph with outsize praise, prompting this empty rally of thanks.

Kamran smoothed the piece of paper and began to write with his Cartier pen. In neat letters, he thanked Aunty Rana for her wishes following his interview. The note was polite but impersonal and he finished with an expansive ‘x’, their customary substitute for truer intimacy. He placed the note inside its envelope and sealed it with a sponge-tipped pen, knowing it would prompt a phone call to thank him for his thank you. Wearily, he returned to the office downstairs.

Finn Andersen received him with a smile. With wavy blond hair, broad shoulders and an easy, affable manner, Finn was the sort of boy who featured in Hampton’s brochures.

Kamran placed his envelope in the silver pail reserved for outgoing post. ‘You must be looking forward to tonight,’ he said.

Finn glanced at his calendar. ‘Tonight?’

‘Your fancy party in the Hawtrey Room?’

‘Ah, of course. Yes, I certainly am.’

‘I hear that everyone gets a bit “tired and emotional”.’

Finn laughed, his blue eyes squinting winsomely. ‘That’s what I hear.’ As assistant to the housemaster, Finn was invited to Hampton’s spring fundraiser where powerful alumni gathered to reminisce and write generous cheques after copious drinks. Hosted in the lavish Hawtrey Room at West Lawn, the party was an opportunity for invited pupils to network in a semi-formal setting.

‘Well, have fun,’ said Kamran. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Finn nodded. ‘I certainly hope so.’

Kamran headed back up to his room. His duty was officially done and now he was free to play. At 6 p.m., their spring exeat would begin; a scheduled weekend that granted them leave. Barrett, a broad-chested boy in the same year as him, had invited some friends to the Cotswolds. Kamran was thrilled that his mother had permitted the trip and began to pack with alacrity, humming a half-formed tune.

From his wardrobe, he pulled out a standard-issue suitcase. With a sturdy brass handle and buttery leather in a dark green olive, it was one component of the Hampton aesthetic: well-turned-out young men, all smartly tugging the exact same case.

Kamran folded his pile of clothes into one half of the suitcase: chinos in khaki, black and dark navy, one polo T-shirt in white and another in black, a knitted jumper and a pair of jeans. Barrett’s parents were away, but from what he heard, these weekends in the country were civilised affairs: whisky in the drawing room with pungent cigars, as if priming already for their grand collective destiny. Hampton was, after all, breeding ground for the country’s most powerful men. Here walked the sons of moguls and royals. These boys with their plummy accents and cheerful confidence were future kings and leaders. Kamran was comfortable in their midst. He may be of a different race but he dressed as they dressed, spoke as they spoke and held the same values and graces. He knew that it wasn’t colour but class that set you apart at Hampton. You could spot the social intake by a mile. They pronounced their ‘t’s and rounded their vowels in an effort to fit in, but they did not know how to hold a fork and were flummoxed by silver service. Kamran pitied them. No matter how they tried, they would never be accepted. Instead, they were treated with a bemused paternalism, as if too dim to withstand challenge. Of course, Hampton did not tolerate bullies, so the worst they ever faced was a hearty ‘pleb’ on the rugby field. It was fitting, thought Kamran, that at Hampton, even insults were traded in Latin. He closed his suitcase and wheeled it to the door. Carpe vinum, he thought as he checked his watch with a smile.

Zara Kaleel gazed at the four-tier chandelier looming above the altar, its mass of golden arms like snakes on Medusa, each curved and spindly, topped with a tongue of light. It cast a ceremonious shadow across the cavernous room, making it somehow colder. She was perched on the edge of a pew, wary of being asked to speak after her silence in the meeting last week. She squared her shoulders and crossed her legs, her right foot positioned in a demure en pointe. Places of worship put her on edge.

There were seven of them tonight in this sorry assembly of miscreants and misfits, all dotted across St Alfege Church as if sharing a pew might unglue a wound. Zara recognised three of them: Sam, the part-time teacher; Kerry, the wounded writer; Ed, the ex-criminal on the cusp of surrender.

As feared, Chris, the session leader, nodded at Zara. ‘Would you like to address the group?’ he asked, his Irish accent soft and lyrical.

Zara felt a spike of unease. How was it that she had spent years orating in open court but was anxious at the prospect of addressing this room? She raised a hand in polite refusal.

Chris angled his head to the right, entreating her to speak.

She faltered for a moment, caught exposed in his hopeful stare. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I’m Zara Kaleel.’ She pressed a nail into the pad of her thumb, leaving half-moon crescents that slowly plumped back. ‘And I am an addict.’ The words were strangely hollow, as if she were playing a role. ‘I have been clean for three weeks.’ The word ‘clean’ held a hitch, laden with sarcasm or irony as if she were somehow superior to this charade of recovery.

She had read that acceptance was a pertinent step and she agreed that this was true, but mainly for people who were really addicted. Zara hadn’t fallen so deeply. In fact, she had stopped taking Diazepam regularly nearly five months ago and hadn’t touched it for a full three weeks – except that one Thursday when she needed to sleep. She wasn’t really an addict but those words formed a vital part of admission to this club and so she deigned to say them.

Unlike in the movies, there was no round of applause to praise her for her courage. Instead, the group waited in silence. In the front row, Ed turned in her direction. His hair fell in strings from the swamp-green canvas of a baseball cap and he stared at her with deathly grey eyes.

Zara wondered if she had made the right choice. Her options had been to see a therapist or join a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. She had balked at the thought of therapy; the shock-white exposure of sitting in a room, bleeding intimacies into soft upholstery as a stranger sat by and watched. She had agreed to attend this NA meeting; to come to church on a Saturday evening and say that she was a junkie.

Chris nodded sagely. ‘Thank you, Zara. Can you share some of your story?’

She wrapped her woollen cardigan around her and folded her arms tightly. With her long dark hair in a messy bun and her skin make-up free, she looked many miles away from the barrister she used to be. ‘I first started using about six years ago.’ She uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat. ‘At first, it was because my job was stressful.’ She paused, not knowing how much to share. ‘I was a lawyer and it wasn’t unusual to take medication to keep yourself going. I took it for several years on and off without any problems and then…’

Ed in the front row gave her a gentle nod.

Zara felt oddly touched by the gesture. She averted her gaze to the altar and focused on the folds of rich purple velvet. ‘Then my dad died in 2017 – three years ago now. He… we hadn’t talked for six months because…’ Zara shook her head. ‘Anyway, I didn’t get to say goodbye.’ She tried to remain neutral as if reciting facts in court, but felt the dull, aching beat of ceaseless remorse. ‘After that, I started taking Diazepam more frequently and I did some things I’m not proud of.’ She flashed back to a newspaper headline: FOUR MUSLIM TEENS RAPE DISABLED ENGLISH GIRL. ‘I let some people down and now I’m here.’

‘Because you choose to be?’ Chris was clearly more perceptive than Zara had believed.

Her lips curled in a plaintive moue. ‘Because I have to be.’ Chris waited and she shifted beneath his gaze. ‘After I quit chambers, I took a job at a crisis centre working with victims of sexual assault. I had a difficult case last year and things have been… erratic ever since.’ She gripped the edge of the pew in front. ‘My boss told me to seek help if I wanted to keep my job.’

‘Has that helped?’

She half shrugged. ‘Well, I’m here, so that remains to be seen.’

Chris smiled. ‘Okay. Thank you for sharing, Zara. You’ve been very brave.’

You’ve been very brave. Was recovery really this cheesy? Zara imagined how Safran would react when she told him about her NA meetings. She pictured the amused curve of his brow and the familiar lilt of his laugh. She – Zara the Brave – in recovery. What a joke, she thought. What an abject hoot.

Kamran heard a sharp rap on the door and opened it to welcome Jimmy. An athletic boy of Malaysian heritage, he, like Kamran, hailed from a wealthy family and dovetailed comfortably with the Hampton aesthetic. His thick dark hair was scrupulously styled and his manner was calm and confident.

‘You heading to the Batts?’ asked Jimmy.

‘The Batts? But we’re meeting Barrett in a minute.’

‘No, we’re not.’ He gestured at Kamran’s phone. ‘I thought he texted you? His parents’ trip got cancelled so we’re not going up there after all.’

Kamran groaned. ‘I didn’t get the message.’ He drew out his phone and checked his texts. ‘The signal here drives me crazy.’

‘Well, there’s no harm done. We’re heading to the Batts instead. Rumour has it that some old cad has smuggled in a keg.’

Kamran arched a brow. ‘In that case, fuck this then.’ He tipped his suitcase over and grabbed his blazer from the back of his chair. Together, they raced down the stairs into the warm May dusk outside.

The Batts, a large clearing hidden by a copse of trees, was located on the south-eastern boundary of the school grounds. It provided a refuge from their various housemasters, tutors and matrons. Access to drink, drugs and women was strictly controlled at Hampton and these covert soirees provided a rare and welcome chance to indulge.

Kamran’s house, West Lawn, was located at the western extreme of Hampton’s grounds. Eleven other boarding houses were dotted around the complex, each with around seventy boys; fourteen from each year. West Lawn was the centre of his life at Hampton, and his closest friends – Jimmy, Barrett and Nathan – were all housed there too.

Soon, the four of them were gathered on the Batts, joined by their boisterous peers. Jimmy handed Kamran a foamy beer, which he tipped to his lips in glee. Raised in a Muslim family, albeit a liberal one, he still felt a subversive thrill whenever he chose to drink. The beer was warm and sticky, but he gulped it down in hearty swigs. As the sky blotted dark with ink, the mood grew loose and merry.

Kamran spotted his brother, Adam, playing beer pong with some seniors. He headed over and lightly touched his shoulder.

Adam turned and flinched in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Kamran gestured towards his friends. ‘Barrett’s parents aren’t leaving after all, so I’m coming home with you tomorrow.’

Adam’s face flushed. ‘Oh, right.’

Kamran pointed at the beer pong table. ‘Sorry to ruin your fun.’

‘Nah, you’re not ruining anything,’ he said gravely.

Kamran laughed. ‘Adam, I’m kidding. You’re sixteen. You can have a drink if you want to. Just go easy, okay?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah. I will.’

Kamran headed back to his friends, vowing not to bother his brother. Adam was naturally pensive and a night of fun would do him good. As the younger sibling, he likely felt more pressure to perform. Kamran was a skilled fencer and popular at school. The thing Adam seemed to enjoy most was spending time with horses and yet he refused to play polo – ‘a cruel sport’ he’d say with that dreamy, absent air of his. He had joined the cricket team at their father’s behest, but lacked a natural flair. Adam was too self-conscious in a team. He needed to learn to let go, and perhaps this party would help him.

Kamran passed a group of juniors that were climbing a large sycamore tree. Janus Keister reached the top branch, then pulled down his pants and mooned his friends.

‘Very on brand, Keister!’ yelled a boy, then chuckled at his own wit. Another group of juniors had fastened their ties around their heads and were running around shouting in Greek. Apparently, this is what passed for fun at Hampton. Kamran laughed as he watched, then joined his friends for a second drink.

Zara smoothed the Estée Lauder serum on her skin, taking care not to rub too hard in the hollow beneath her left cheekbone. The bruises had long healed but it was still delicate and she often felt a faint pain when she pressed it absentmindedly. Five months had passed since the attack and though she had clicked back into her heels and pulled on her armour of poise, she still felt a queasy vulnerability whenever she ventured from home. She had to harden herself to do it, as if she were duelling with the very act of existing.

It all started with Jodie Wolfe, a sixteen-year-old girl from East London who walked into Zara’s office last July and accused four classmates of rape. In what would become a tabloid frenzy, Jodie – white, disabled, beleaguered – named her attackers as Muslim. The firestorm that followed took something from them both.

Zara, herself a Muslim, was denounced a traitor – rhetoric that led to a physical attack. It was on the most banal of evenings, during a late-night trip to pick up dry cleaning, that she had heard those fateful footsteps – two sets echoing her own. Her memory held the next moments in a murky midnight blue: her scream snuffed by the force of a palm, the crack of her cheek on brick, the giant flowers blooming in her vision, her body jolting upwards. A kick to her stomach when she fell to the ground and, then, the single most terrifying moment of her life: a bottle of clear liquid emptied on her face with the threat that it was acid. She had blacked out then, sinking into dark relief. When she woke, the doctors told her it was vodka, not acid, but the horror of that moment – the sadism in her attackers’ eyes – changed something permanent inside her.

Ten days later, a video clip surfaced that seemed to prove the four boys’ innocence: Jodie whispering to Amir, the ringleader, entreating him to touch her. Disgraced, Jodie said that she had lied and the case was swiftly thrown out of court.

Weeks later, a second clip emerged showing the events that followed the first. This one proved indisputably that the boys were, in fact, guilty. The case was reopened but Amir was set free and his friends were issued nominal sentences given their young age and clean rap sheets.

Zara had no way of knowing if it was this final infraction that led her to the precipice, or if she would have arrived there regardless following her attack. She found herself taking Diazepam with more zeal than ever before, mixing it with alcohol with dangerous frequency if only to collapse into dreamless sleep, free of violent memories.

She reached her nadir in February when she roused in her car one day to the blare of horns deep inside Rotherhithe Tunnel, a narrow, suffocating tube that burrowed beneath the Thames. She had veered out of her lane into the path of oncoming traffic – extraordinarily lethal in such a small space. She snapped to rigid attention and drove home with a manic focus. Once safely inside her Greenwich flat, she let herself dissolve. It was shame that she felt more than anything – not only for being so weak but for putting someone’s life at risk.

Safran had forced her to take a break after hearing what had happened that day. He had bundled her into his car and driven her to Dartmoor. They took long, bracing walks in the February cold and saw wild horses gallop on the moor. The memory of that week made her well with sorrow. Sharing a home with her friend made her see how lonely she was. There was comfort in knowing there was heat in the house, in seeing the grains of salt fanned across the table, in the curtain that wasn’t folded quite the way she wanted, or the haphazard way he left his shoes on the landing. They had spent evenings in front of the fire, eating comfort food and watching TV. Every laugh from her he took as a small victory.

Their colleagues from chambers had often wondered if their friendship went further given their easy manner and the way they looked together: he, tall and athletic with sleek good looks; she with her haughty cheekbones and naturally full lips. Their chemistry was never sexual, however. They were more like comrades in arms.

Over the course of the week, they had watched the first season of Breaking Bad – he appalled that she hadn’t yet seen it – and in the bright, warm tones of the Albuquerque desert, she found a strange and calming comfort. Perhaps nothing was elemental and everyone was in danger of change. Perhaps that’s why she, Zara the Brave, still felt this strange anxiety even at home on a Saturday evening.

She paced to the kitchen and poured herself a cool glass of water. She sat on her large cream sofa, legs tucked beneath her thighs, and watched the hand on her large wall clock as it counted down the minutes to night.

Were those gunshots? Kamran wondered idly. There was no way to tell over the riotous noise. The babble of boys mixed with tinny music that played from someone’s phone. Shouts and screams rose like flares that joined to form a din. Kamran felt unsteady on his feet, but where he’d usually stop, he carried on drinking, knowing that tomorrow he was free from duties.

Besides, he had never been truly drunk, not stinking drunk. He felt a tinge of envy when his friends would talk of hunching over a toilet bowl, the sheer abandon of knowing what was coming but going ahead and doing it anyway. It felt like an important part of living, a rite of passage to adulthood, and the fact that he’d never done it needled him unduly like it might if he’d never kissed a girl or not yet lost his virginity. Thankfully, that wasn’t a worry. He thought of his family’s cruise at Christmas and his fumbles with Maya, the ballet dancer. He thought of her long legs, shiny from the buttercream that she kept in a jar in her cabin. He thought of her lithe thighs and ready lips, her warm mouth and the downy film above it.

‘She certainly taught me a thing or two,’ he had joked with Jimmy on his return to Hampton, his voice gruff with newfound swagger. In truth, he had weaved with nerves and trembled beneath her fingers. She, a year older than he, had lulled him into security, telling him over and over how handsome he was, how desperately she wanted him. He didn’t care that she was bored or looking for something to do that might annoy her wealthy parents. He succumbed to her that evening and every evening for the rest of the trip, begging Adam to cover for him.

He hadn’t been with a woman since. The girls from the comp nearby certainly made him flutter, but given his schedule at Hampton, he had little chance to indulge. There was plenty of time for that, he supposed. He was approaching his final year of study and would soon be starting at Oxford. All those girls from their single-sex schools – what an utter treat.

Kamran knew the sort of man he aspired to be – a strong and faithful one, loyal and fair like his father – but first he wanted to have some fun; to drive it all from his system. He would give himself ten years, he’d decided – from eighteen to twenty-eight – to sample the fairer sex. After that, he would look for a wife and have three kids and buy a nice car like his dad. Until then, he would seize his youth with all his might.

Kamran accepted another beer, its hoppy smell mingling with spring wisteria. It was warm and gummy in his throat but he chugged it down regardless. A group of juniors rode by on bicycles in close pursuit of a small white rabbit, its bushy tail flashing a desperate SOS. Kamran willed it to escape and was pleased when a boy wobbled and fell, his legs tangling in the cold blue metal. Giddily, he stood and remounted the bike, wobbling down the hill towards his quarry. Nearby, a separate group of boys dipped a pint with various body parts to feed to one of their friends. Further on, a group was pouring a keg straight into the mouth of a boy lying prone. Above the noise and chaos, the night took on a certain romance: strange and heady, sweet and surreal.

Kamran accepted another beer and the sky began to spin. He laughed out loud at something absurd. He heard the Hampton anthem and a chorus soon joined in. He loved this place. He really, truly did.

The night bled into a snatch of memories: him walking giddily home, fumbling for his keys, the jangle as they fell to the floor, the jarring sound making him giggle. The way his head pulsed as he brushed his teeth and how the room seemed to stretch and contract. Pulling off his clothes, falling into his sheets, swiping at some crumbs and then sinking into sleep.

It was deep and dreamless until he felt a body against his, the powerful arm curled around his chest, the hot whisper in his ear, the eager hand encircling him. It seemed inky and unreal, with the opiate quality of an erotic dream. Each touch, in isolation, felt entirely unthreatening: a fingertip brushing against his navel, dipping inside so slightly; lips on the curve of his shoulder blade, warm and hypnotic. It was only when he felt the full heft of weight that something triggered inside him: a distant alarm or warning that this might really be happening. But where his subconscious might have roused him, it lay only mute and submissive, blunted by the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream. He felt a bewildering mix of pain and pleasure and heard sounds in a voice that was somehow familiar. He tried to reach for meaning, to latch onto reality, but only sank back to a deep, dark sleep.

Sofia Hadid read the email with a febrile sense of defeat. Jonathan Walmsley, the CEO of her father’s company, had dispatched her ideas with a cold and clear diplomacy. He appreciated her input, he wrote, but it wasn’t the direction the company was heading. If she should have any similar ideas, however, then she should please feel free to contact him.

She knew he disliked her meddling, that he wondered why she couldn’t keep quiet like her sister, Noreen, and the other silent partners. What he didn’t know was that Sofia had been her father’s first choice as successor at Arshad Steel. It was only after she got married and pregnant that his preference seemed to shift. What hope did women have when their own fathers eschewed them for men?

For years, she had tried to prove her worth, sending him plans and proposals and strategies for improving efficiency. ‘Focus on family,’ he would tell her. ‘It’s the most important job in the world.’ A gentle way of saying that she was no longer needed.

She took her thwarted ambitions and applied them to her role at home. She created a project called ‘Hadid Family’ in Basecamp, the project management software used by Arshad Steel. She added profiles for Kamran and Adam, her brows creasing at the lack of poetry in the order of those syllables.

She created a space where her children could share what they needed, as well as their goals, ambitions and worries. She even interviewed them bi-annually for a ‘deep dive’ into their lives. Mack thought it ludicrous, but why couldn’t motherhood be approached like a job? If managers cared enough to formally check in with staff, why couldn’t a mother follow suit? All too often, parents lost sight of their children; assumed that because they saw them every day, they would spot a private aching. This is how children slipped from their grip and she refused to let that happen.

Besides, Basecamp was useful in other ways. It helped her keep track of her staff, especially since they worked different days and patterns: Julio the gardener on Monday, Magda the cleaner on Wednesday, Oliver the driver whenever he was needed since he was on full-time hours, and Nevinka the cook who was there every day.

Sofia used to have a live-in housekeeper when the children were small but now it seemed a tad indulgent. It would be useful though when the boys came home and the house-clean was already two days old.

She had received a message this morning, a taciturn text from Kamran saying he would not be going to Barrett’s after all and would now be arriving with Adam – news that pleased her immensely. Her children were her greatest joy and biggest achievement. They had to be. What else could she show for her wealth?

When she heard the door rasp open, she swept over to them with open arms and ushered them in with a kiss.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Adam hauled his suitcase inside.

Sofia frowned. ‘Where’s Oliver?’

He shrugged. ‘We told him we’d get our own cases.’

A cut of annoyance tightened her smile. ‘Well, that’s fine but it’s two flights to your room.’

‘Mum, we can handle it.’

There it was: that spike of impatience. She was only trying to help. ‘So!’ she said brightly, a two-letter palate cleanser, making way for warmth. ‘How are my boys?’

Adam nodded. ‘Yeah, fine.’

She looked to Kamran and noticed the film of sweat that glossed his upper lip. ‘Are you ill?’ she asked.

He tugged at a collar uncomfortably. ‘No, I’m just tired.’

‘You don’t look well.’ She grasped him by the elbow and turned him to the light. ‘Shall I call Dr Hepenstall?’

He pulled away from her grip. ‘No, I’m fine, Mum.’ He gave her a listless smile. ‘Honestly. I just got too hot in the car.’

Sofia was wary of pressing further so let them take their leave, listening as the twin creaks of their feet traced a path upstairs. One door closed and then another.

She checked her watch. It was approaching lunchtime so she headed to the kitchen to prepare their meal. She unwrapped the intricate platters of food prepared by Nevinka: chana chaat, a flavoursome mix of chickpea, mint, yoghurt and tamarind combined with onions and pastry; succulent lamb kofta meatballs; layers of biryani; and kheer for dessert, rice pudding topped with almonds and pistachios. Her sons loved homemade South Asian cuisine and it was important to her that they were connected to their culture. She arranged the platters on the large oak table and set out plates and cutlery. She drew three glasses of icy water and placed them neatly to the right of each setting. She took another glance at her watch, then settled down to wait, ignoring the airless press of boredom.

Kamran sat on his bed in a daze, a sturdy king-size with a sumptuous white duvet, goose down pillows and four extra cushions in burgundy and gold. He remembered pleading with his mother in Liberty to leave the cushions behind, but she had firmly insisted. ‘It looks nice,’ she’d said. ‘You’re barely home anyway and when people come round, they want a tour. It’ll look nicer this way.’

He lay back on the cushions now to stop his stomach churning. Was he hung over, or was this the noisome texture of disgust? He could scarcely believe it had happened – was briefly convinced it had not – but the numb-white glaze of shock told him he couldn’t be sure. Lying there, he felt his mind cut away from itself, so that even as he succumbed to paralysis, some stronger authority inside himself rose to marshal his strength.

It dived down for memories, grasping at them like seaweed from silt. The dull twinkle of stars in the sky, high-pitched jeers and raucous shouts. Adam playing beer pong and laughing in that nervy, restrained way that he did. Jimmy or maybe Nathan pushing another drink at him and Kamran glugging it freely, buoyed by youth and liberty.

He traced his walk home: passing beneath a Victorian lamplight, pausing to watch a hundred mites dance in the glow it cast to the ground. He’d seen one of Hampton’s peacocks and hoped it would splay its feathers, knowing it would not. He had stumbled along the path, a sliver of safety in the baleful dark. He was drunker than he’d ever been, drunker even than that last night on the cruise when Maya had traced her tongue down the curve of his back, wrapped him in her mouth and did things with her delicate fingers he would never have dared imagine. He’d got hard thinking about it, swaying on the green. At West Lawn, he had thumbed in his key code, his fingers leaving five smudges of sweat. He had grappled with his keys outside his bedroom door, then slammed it shut and flinched at the noise before remembering that most of the boys had gone. He’d pulled off his shirt and trousers, and climbed into bed in a stupor.

He tried to draw outlines in his mind and fill in the inky blanks. He remembered a hand tugging at his underwear, the black band of his Tom Ford boxers skimming across his buttocks, hot breath in his hair, a heady, intense feeling and the murk of a vital question: had he wanted it? Had he known what was happening and relented anyway? Did a dark, perverse part of him react to the transgressive nature of it? He remembered asking a question if not out loud then in his mind: what is happening? The answer was swallowed by darkness and the fact that he hadn’t fought. He knew he hadn’t fought.

‘Boys,’ his mother’s singsong voice called up, snapping him from his thoughts. Kamran stood and lightly slapped each of his cheeks, bolstering himself for battle. He looked in his mirror and smiled, dialling the wattage up and down until it looked easy and natural. ‘Coming,’ he called and joined Adam on his way down.

At the table, he picked up a kofta and popped it in his mouth. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said between bites, feeling the gummy meat settle between his teeth.

‘So – talk to me,’ she said.

He nodded, assuring her he would as soon as he finished his mouthful. He remembered being fifteen and a conversation in their car. He and Adam were coming home from school and she had asked them how they were. ‘Fine,’ said one. ‘Yep,’ said the other. She had pulled up on the side of the road. ‘We’re not doing this, okay?’ she’d said. ‘We’re not going to be a family that doesn’t talk to each other. We’re going to communicate. So I’m going to ask you again: how was your day?’

Kamran had humoured her, not telling her that he too had seen that movie where Ethan Hawke pulls over his kids and gives them a similar speech. Perhaps cinema was as good a place as any to learn the nebulous art of parenting.

He swallowed his mouthful, knowing he couldn’t fluff this performance. ‘Things are good,’ he said. ‘I got a send up in fencing class. Mr Storr said I’m winning more pressure points than any other pupil. He might even select me for Grenoble.’ He segued to a monologue, changing his voice here and there like an actor on a stage: plummy for Mr Morewood, a trill for Mrs Brodie, a Dutch lilt for Nathan and a cut-glass accent for Jimmy. Beneath it all, his stomach dredged with nausea. He took another bite and imagined what would happen if he blurted it out now.

‘I think I was raped.’

‘Mum, I think I was raped.’

‘Hey, Mum, by the way, I’m pretty sure I was raped.’

He gulped a mouthful of water. ‘Mr Wycombe said I’m on course for top boy in his class.’

His mother reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘My boy. I’m so proud of you.’

He prayed she would look away, for his smile was a filament about to break. She held his gaze and he pretended to work something loose with his tongue to explain the strange contorting of his face. How does one deal with grief that wasn’t caused by death?

She continued to ask him questions and Kamran dutifully answered, silently second-guessing himself – the angle of his elbow on the table, the fullness of his laugh – as if he’d forgotten how to be her son. He wanted to confide in her, needed surely to tell someone, for if he continued pretending now, he would have to pretend for the rest of his life.

Chapter Two

Zara sensed someone watching her and glanced up from her screen. Sure enough, there was a boy in the doorway: mid-teens, lean but athletic with fine-boned features that verged on feminine.

She stiffened in her seat, an involuntary reaction to this Asian male stranger. The last one that found her alone had smashed her face against a wall.

‘Ms Kaleel?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Yes,’ she replied, also a question.

‘My name is Kamran Hadid.’

‘How may I help you?’ She relaxed a little beneath his mild manner.

‘May I shut the door?’ he asked.

She studied him. ‘If you tell me what this is about.’

He paused, a nervous shimmer of energy. ‘Something happened to me.’

She recognised the wilt in his speech. ‘Okay,’ she said gently.

He shut the door and pointed at a chair in query.

Zara nodded.

He sat down and pressed his palms into the soft black pleather. ‘I think I was raped,’ he said.

Zara exhaled. She reached for a pen and a light blue form. ‘Okay. Kamran, I work as an independent sexual violence advisor here, also known as an ISVA. What I’m going to do is take a few details and then we can assess the best way to help you.’

‘Okay,’ he said with a hesitant catch in his breath.

Zara discreetly glanced at the clock, knowing that her next client was due. She took some basic details, then asked Kamran if he identified as trans.

‘No,’ he said with a crease on his brows.

Zara placed an ‘X’ on the form and then set it on the table. ‘Okay, in that case, what we need to do, Kamran, is refer you to our sister clinic which is also a SARC, a Sexual Assault Referral Centre.’ She caught his spike of doubt. ‘The clinic has facilities to help boys like you.’

He grimaced. ‘But… can’t I tell you?’

Zara smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid this clinic is specifically designed for women but, Kamran, you will receive the same level of care from them. If it’s easier for you to confide in a female counsellor, I can organise one for you at the Paddington SARC.’

‘It’s not that.’ A flush laced across his cheek. ‘I know you worked with that girl last year and I know that you’re Muslim so…’ He shrugged with the slightest lift of a shoulder. ‘You’ll understand what this means.’

Zara felt a jolt of unease. She had no interest in identity politics – not after Jodie’s case – but also bore a sense of duty.

Kamran gathered his hands in his lap. ‘I told myself to forget it; it’s only been two days and I need time to work things out, but…’ He blinked. ‘Things like this don’t just go away. You have to deal with them. That’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘Kamran, I can see if they have a Muslim counsellor at Paddington. I’m really sorry but we only work with women here.’ She watched the cold drain in his eyes. ‘Listen, I’ll put you in a cab right now and have you there in no time.’

A knock on the door startled them both. ‘Zara, your eleven o’clock is here,’ said Monica, an Artemis House administrator.

She nodded her thanks. ‘Kamran, let me get you a cab.’ She handed him the filled-in form. ‘I’ll call Lisa at the Paddington SARC. Give her this when you get there. I promise you they’ll be discreet.’

He nodded dumbly, then remembered his manners and added, ‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’

She hated to do it, but Artemis House was a women’s facility. Their entire support structure and funding was based on the fact that this was a safe space for women and trans women. They just didn’t have the infrastructure to assist men as well.

She picked up her phone but then set it down again. ‘I’ll be back in one moment,’ she assured Kamran. She strode to Stuart’s office and knocked on his open door. ‘Hi, just a very quick one,’ she said. ‘I have a seventeen-year-old boy here reporting a rape. I know what our policy says but I wondered if there was any scope for exceptions. He’s Muslim and said he’d like to speak to a Muslim counsellor.’

Stuart grimaced, his cheeks rounding in regret. ‘Sorry, Zara, no cigar. Legally, we just can’t do it given the terms of our funding.’

She nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She thanked him and headed wearily back to her office.

The acrid smell of the pine tree made Kamran feel queasy. He pressed a fist against his nose to try to block it out.

‘Paddington, is it?’ asked the cab driver.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kamran. He had wasted an hour journeying across London to go and see Zara in Whitechapel. Now, they headed west on City Road and he watched mutely as the red-white-blue storefronts of shoebox chicken shops morphed to the racing green of artisanal crêperies. The hum and beat of life outside seemed foreign and unknowable. There was a value, wasn’t there, in knowing the pattern of your days; in knowing the pattern your life? He had it all mapped out for him: Oxford, an MBA, a high-ranking role at his father’s company, marriage, three kids and a manicured lawn. He was about to upend his life for what? An illusory chance at justice?

They hurtled closer to Paddington and as the world outside pressed against the glass, Kamran felt his nerve desert him. He leaned forward, the seatbelt catching on his shoulder. ‘Actually, I’m sorry, sir, but can you please take me to Hampton School instead? It’s on Hampton Hill.’

The cabbie met his eyes in the mirror, then pecked his chin at his GPS. ‘The address here says Paddington.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I can pay you extra.’

He frowned. ‘Fine,’ he said and reached out and started the meter.

Kamran leaned back in his seat, feeling the forceful lift of relief. He’d been mad to think that reporting the rape was the correct thing to do. Gripped by mania in the small hours of the morning, he was convinced that the only way to exorcise this feeling was to spew it into the world; to cleanse himself through confession. Now, turned away from Artemis House, he willed himself to draw upon sheer brute force. Happiness, after all, was a wilful act. ‘Faber est suae quisque fortunae,’ his father liked to say. ‘Every man is the architect of his own fortune.’ Kamran believed that was true and with enough strength and patience, perhaps he could correct his life back to its original course.

At Hampton, he headed straight to West Lawn, walking briskly to avoid being stopped. As he entered the building, he heard a voice from the housemaster’s office.

‘Busy morning?’

Kamran looked up and halted. He stared at the shock of blond hair, the easy smile and gleam in his eye. ‘Yes,’ he replied, a visible heat rising in his cheeks. His gaze dipped to the floor, then back up to Finn.

‘Good to hear.’ His smile widened lopsidedly. ‘I had fun the other night.’

Kamran flinched. ‘“Fun?”’

Finn laughed ruefully. ‘You’re right. We did get a bit “tired and emotional”.’

Kamran hovered there for a beat, reaching for something appropriate. ‘I should go,’ he managed and headed for the stairs.

Back in his room, Kamran examined past contact with Finn, casting a searchlight over fields of memories to find the one that mattered; the one that sent the false message.

Finn had an easy, roguish charm that manifested as flirtatiousness. Had Kamran reciprocated unwittingly? He thought of their last meeting before he left for the party and held each word to scrutiny: ‘tired and emotional’, ‘have fun’, ‘see you later’. There was no hint of suggestion.

‘I certainly hope so’ and that winning grin. Had there been a deeper meaning that Kamran hadn’t caught? What really happened on the night of the party? Would he ever know?

Erin Quinto slid a sheet of paper across the desk, the spikes of her cuff glinting in the sun. ‘I have the boy’s home address in Belsize Park, his school address in Hampton and a landline number for his family, but no direct details for him. They don’t list them in the school database.’

Zara scanned the piece of paper. ‘So there’s no way to contact him?’

Erin raked a hand through her short black hair. ‘Not via official channels.’

‘And unofficial ones?’ Zara knew that Erin, freelance investigator at Artemis House, was notoriously resourceful.

‘Just a protected Instagram account. You could add him on there, or… I could dig further.’

Zara recognised the code for ‘something illegal’. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll add him on Instagram but I’ll have to check with Stuart first. I’m already on thin ice with this.’

Restive with guilt yesterday, Zara had called the Paddington SARC to check on Kamran’s case but Lisa, her contact there, said he hadn’t attended. Zara had searched for ‘Kamran Hadid’ online and found an article on Tatler.com picturing him and his elegant family at a black-tie gala – but still no contact details. She told herself that a boy like Kamran had a support system in place but she knew that wealth and privilege were no fit antidote to corrosive shame.

‘HadidMajor is his Instagram handle,’ said Erin, adding a scrawl to the sheet of paper. ‘And Hadid M is his name.’ She stood. ‘Let me know if you need more help.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ Zara studied the piece of paper, tracing a finger across the creamy texture. She remembered the look in Kamran’s eye: the cold drain when he realised she wouldn’t help him, the monotone politeness of his quiet goodbye. Haunted by the dire statistics around male mental health, she knew she had to check on him.

She stood and marched to Stuart’s office.

He looked up, his unruly blond curls bouncing with the motion. ‘Oh no, I recognise that look.’

Zara held up a palm. ‘Hear me out.’

‘Lawyers,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘God, they love to talk.’

‘We,’ she corrected, for Stuart was once a lawyer too. He had left the bar eight years ago to found Artemis House, initially using family money but now reliant on external funding.

‘What is it?’ he asked good-naturedly.

Zara sat down. ‘I mentioned yesterday that a seventeen-year-old boy came in to see me. I put him in a cab to Paddington, but he didn’t turn up there. I’d like permission to follow up with him.’

Stuart frowned. ‘If he didn’t turn up, it means he wasn’t ready to talk.’

‘But he did turn up,’ said Zara. ‘He was ready to talk but we turned him away.’

‘You put him in a cab to where he needed to go. You couldn’t have done more.’

‘That’s not true, Stuart. I could have done more if we weren’t throttled by rules.’

Stuart sighed. ‘The rules are there for a reason.’ He pushed back his chair to face her more squarely. ‘Zara, you’re on the frontline and I know that that’s where the work happens, but without all the rules and bureaucracy, there wouldn’t even be a frontline. We get funding from twenty different women’s groups. They would be up in arms if they knew we were misdirecting funds and they would be well within their rights. We can’t do it.’

Zara felt a spike of frustration. ‘But Stuart—’

‘No.’

‘Okay, well, what if I did it in my own time?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s blurring the lines. How do we separate the two? If you receive a desperate email from him at 10 a.m., would you not answer it till six? What happens if we get audited? We can’t mix the two.’

Zara scowled. ‘He was ready, Stuart. He was ready for help and we turned him away. He didn’t show up at Paddington so where is he? What’s going through his head? What’s he going to do? That will be on us – not some unseen bureaucracy but on you and me.’

Stuart exhaled. He studied her for a moment, then held up his hands in surrender. ‘The best I can do is grant you unpaid leave and you work as a truly independent ISVA.’

Zara immediately rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Stuart. I’ll confirm my leave as soon as I speak to him.’

‘Zara.’ He stopped her at the threshold. ‘What is it about this kid?’

She pressed a hand against the doorframe. ‘You know what’s strange? I’m so critical of tribalism. I think it’s such a base instinct but I see in him the men I grew up with and I know what something like this would do to them.’ Her lips formed a mirthless smile. ‘It would erase their sense of self, their honour, their worth. I need to show him that these aren’t lost.’

Stuart nodded and righted his tie. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’

Zara arrived at Hampton late on Thursday and paused at the gates in her silver Audi to give the guard her name. Kamran hadn’t responded to her request on Instagram and she had grown increasingly worried. It had been two days since her meeting with Stuart and though he swore he couldn’t involve himself, he had pulled some strings to get her in.

The guard checked his tablet, sliding a pout from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘Ah, there it is.’ He opened the gates and waved her through.

Zara drove across the crunchy gravel, a rose-yellow sweep of California Gold. She parked by a stretch of manicured lawn, noting the Bentley and Rolls Royce. From her car, she had a clear view of Hampton House: a colonnaded entrance approached by a grand symmetrical staircase that traversed three levels of terraces.

Inside, she was met by a silver-haired man in rimless glasses – MR LISMORE, his nameplate said.

‘May I help you?’ he asked with a perfunctory smile.

‘Yes. I’m here to see one of your pupils.’

He glanced down at his list. May I take your name, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Zara Kaleel.’

‘K,’ he said, tracing his finger down a printed list. ‘K. K. Ah, there you are.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Ah, but Ms Kaleel, it says you are here to see Kamran Hadid but he’s on authorised leave.’ He tapped the piece of paper. ‘I’m surprised no one thought to inform you.’

Zara frowned. ‘Leave? Does that mean he’s at home?’

‘I expect so. Perhaps if you tell me what business you have, I can call Mr Morewood and—’

‘That won’t be necessary. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘But—’

‘Thank you,’ she said, flashing him a smile.

He returned it instinctively. ‘You’re welcome. Thank you for coming all this way.’

Back in her car, Zara considered her options. She could drive to Artemis House and forget about Kamran, she could wait a few days and revisit Hampton, or she could visit him at home. And what? she thought. Tell a Muslim family she was there to discuss the rape of their son?

Maybe he was fine, she reasoned. Maybe he had called a helpline and was working through the trauma. She recalled the spike of doubt, however, when she had told him to go elsewhere. Zara grimaced, then keyed his address into her GPS and headed to Belsize Park.

There, she drove along streets of stucco townhouses that rose in storeys of three. Uniform black doors were flanked by fluted pillars, each marked with discreet numbers. She turned into Kamran’s street and parked by number sixty-two. She climbed the three stairs to the door, then rang, waited and rang again.

After a moment, a woman opened the door. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a white silk blouse with a pussy bow collar and pale grey trousers that tapered at the ankle. Zara recognised her from Tatler as Kamran’s mother.

‘Ms Hadid, my name is Zara Kaleel. I’m here to talk about your son, Kamran.’ It only lasted a second but she saw how the woman looked her over, assessing Zara’s neat high bun, slimline trousers and light cream jumper, deciding in an instant that she was one of them.

She opened the door wider. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Hampton usually call.’

‘I’m sorry to drop in on you like this.’ Zara was careful not to lie.

‘Please come in.’ The woman stepped aside.

Zara walked in, hit by the fresh scent of coffee and bergamot. She followed her host into a large living room, tastefully decorated in fawn and cream, with snatches of brass and verdigris blue.

‘Ms Hadid, I—’

‘It’s Mrs, but please call me Sofia.’ She gestured at a sofa. ‘And please take a seat. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I—’

‘Coffee? Water? Juice?’

Zara smiled politely. ‘No, thank you.’ She pointed at a chair. ‘Won’t you join me?’

Sofia Hadid took a seat. ‘I informed the registrar that Kamran hasn’t been feeling very well. I know absence is regarded poorly but he really is in a bad way. Just a few days should do it.’

Zara nodded. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ They exchanged banalities for a minute or two, then Zara began amiably. ‘Sofia, I should say that I haven’t come from the school to see how Kamran is.’ She picked her words carefully, knowing they gave her plausible deniability if she were accused of lying her way in. ‘I’ve come to see him about an incident involving a fellow student.’

Sofia bristled. ‘What incident?’

Zara waved a casual hand. ‘Just some tomfoolery that happened last week.’

‘But how does it involve Kamran?’

‘I’m not sure it does. I’m just trying to get a full picture.’ She paused, her voice light and casual. ‘He probably wouldn’t have seen anything, but I’d be remiss not to ask.’

Sofia nodded thoughtfully. ‘In that case, I’ll see if he’s able to join us.’

‘I’m happy to pop up and see him,’ Zara offered quickly. ‘It’s important not to strain him if he’s feeling unwell.’

Sofia hesitated. ‘Oh, he won’t be presentable up there. I’ll just go and bring him.’

Zara nodded, not wanting to push. ‘Thank you.’

She marvelled at the vagaries of this job – and indeed this city. She thought of her last big case and Jodie’s cramped quarters at the Wentworth Estate. The acrid smoke, the slushy stairs and the stale smell of urine. This was practically a different world – one of tasteful accent walls and vintage mandolins, early years classics and grand wooden beams. Zara wandered to the mantelpiece, clearly invited to do so by the various awards and trinkets. She looked at photographs of Sofia, ten years younger, with a seven- or eight-year-old Kamran. He brandished an award proudly, his legs draped over his father’s shoulder. A younger boy, presumably Kamran’s brother, stood glumly by their father’s thigh. Next to the photos was a neat line of greeting cards. She glanced behind her, then picked up the first one.

‘Dear Kamran. I was very sorry to hear that you’re unwell. I hope these flowers will cheer you up,’ it read, signed by ‘Aunty Rana’. Another, also from Rana, congratulated him on his interview at Oxford.

Zara heard footsteps on the stairs. She set down the card and turned around. Kamran appeared behind his mother, dressed in a grey T-shirt and navy blue jogging bottoms. His hair was dishevelled and dark circles pooled beneath his eyes. He greeted her with a polite smile, but then recognition hit: a lance of fear cut across his face, the press of panic clear in his stance. His gaze darted to Sofia but when he saw no worry or anger there, he fell smoothly into character.

‘Hi, Ms Kaleel.’

‘Hello, Kamran. I’m sorry to disrupt your morning. I wanted to have a quick chat.’

‘Of course.’ He sat in the chair furthest from the window, his wan face falling into shadow. He turned to Sofia. ‘Mum, my throat’s feeling a bit sore. Do you mind making me a honey tea?’

She beamed. ‘Of course, my love.’ She glanced at Zara. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you something?’

Zara nodded as if acquiescing. ‘I’ll agree to a cup of tea – thank you.’

‘Is Earl Grey okay?’

‘Yes, wonderful.’ She waited for Sofia to leave, then turned to Kamran.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a savage whisper. He flung an arm at the door. ‘I haven’t told my mother.’

Zara held a finger to her lips. ‘Kamran, the Paddington SARC told me you didn’t go there. You need to have a medical exam.’

He sighed, a harsh plosive of frustration. ‘I changed my mind, okay?’

‘Why?’

‘Why should I bother? What’s the point?’ A frantic note rose in his voice.

‘Kamran, you need help.’

‘Yes, and that’s why I came to you.’

Zara flinched. ‘I’m sorry for sending you away. My hands were tied, but I’m here now.’

‘Why?’

She blinked. ‘Because I want to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I am. Now go!’

‘Kamran, will you at least come in for a medical exam?’

‘No. Please go!’ He glanced at the door, the note of panic notching higher in his voice. ‘Please.’

‘Will you give me your email address so I can send you some material?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t need any material.’

‘You can ignore it if you want to but I promise it will help.’

Sofia’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

‘Please,’ pressed Zara.

His eyes flicked to the door and back. Panicked into relenting, he recited it to her in an urgent whisper.

Zara exhaled. ‘Thank you.’

Sofia entered the room with a tea tray, an ornate silver confection with delicate leaves adorning each corner. She set it down and took a seat next to Kamran, draping an affectionate arm around his shoulders. ‘He’ll be back up and running in no time. Won’t you, Kamran?’ She placed a palm on the nape of his neck. ‘Nothing keeps you down for long.’

Kamran nodded brightly. He answered Zara’s cursory questions and confirmed that he knew nothing of any incident.

Zara studied him as he spoke. The haunted look had lifted and he now looked bright and hopeful. Here was a family play-acting for each other. What would happen if the pretence failed?

She took a sip of tea and heard the front door open. Footsteps in the hall approached the living room. A man, tall and powerfully built, paused at the threshold. He was in his early fifties and dressed in khaki trousers and a dark green jacket. ‘Oh hello,’ he said, spotting Zara. His baritone voice came from deep in his throat. ‘I’m Mustaque Hadid – Mack.’

Zara stood to greet him, but he interrupted.

‘Oh, no please sit. I hope you’ll excuse me. I just need to…’ He indicated the item in his left hand.

Zara balked, noting the long black barrel of a hunting rifle.

‘I like to lock this away as soon as I’m in,’ he said, giving her a little bow before trudging down the hall. She heard a door close in the bowels of the house.

‘Please excuse Kamran’s father,’ said Sofia smoothly. ‘He goes hunting every Thursday in the Wessex Hills. Gets insufferable if he cannot.’

Zara nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘The boys go with him sometimes. Adam can’t stand it, of course, but I suppose you know that given his stance on Hampton’s fox-hunting.’ She laughed. ‘Such sensitivity is not becoming in a man.’

Kamran pulled away from her. ‘They laugh and have fun, Mum, and don’t respect their quarry. You can’t blame him for not enjoying it.’

Sofia smiled stiffly. ‘We all have to do things we don’t enjoy. The sooner Adam understands that, the better.’

Zara returned her smile politely. ‘Well, I have what I need.’ She drained her tea, though it was still too hot. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She stood up to leave.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Sofia. ‘Of course, if you can warn us next time, I can make sure Kamran is more… presentable.’

‘Of course. I do apologise.’ She promised Kamran she’d be in touch and followed Sofia to the door where they exchanged a final goodbye.

Outside, Zara glanced up at the house. It was strange; it wasn’t envy she felt but pity. How tiring it must be to be perfect.

Inside the house, Kamran sipped his tea and watched his mother clear away the tray.

‘They usually call before they send someone,’ she said absent-mindedly. ‘The house is a state. What must she think of us.’

‘The house is fine,’ he told her.

‘It’s not.’ She gestured at the rug. ‘Magda cancelled yesterday. Her granddaughter’s ill again.’ She tutted. ‘Why don’t people take responsibility for their own children?’

Kamran’s hands tensed into fists as he listened to her fret. Part of him wanted to tell her out of spite, just to shut her up. Kamran loved his mother, thought highly of her class and grace, but was exhausted by her pedantry. ‘I’m feeling a bit cold so I’m going to head back up,’ he said.

‘Do you want a hot water bottle?’

‘No, Mum, I’m fine. I just want to rest.’ He softened his tone to add, ‘Thank you.’

He headed up to his room and burrowed in his bed, the expensive sheets cool on his skin. He threw off his duvet, walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a thick fleece blanket. He lined the inside of the duvet with it and curled up underneath. He knew it would make him sweat but maybe that’s what he needed: to bleed out all the rage buried beneath the surface.

Why had he given Zara his email address? He’d decided, hadn’t he, to move on? How much pain could it possibly cause when he wasn’t even sure what had happened? He willed himself to remember but could recall only snatches: inky movements in the dark of night, strong arms that made him feel safe, a careening feeling of loss of control and in the morning, that shock of blond hair in his bed. Finn’s strong jaw peaceably asleep, his bare chest rising and falling. Kamran’s own body naked beneath the sheets. His head, thick and blurry; his tongue, stale and cottony. The mêlée of emotions: confusion, disgust, revulsion, but beneath it all, a morning erection that didn’t die away. He had fled the scene, practically running to the gym where he headed straight to the showers. He’d questioned his basic convictions; thought of Maya on the cruise and her long, dark legs. He knew what he was and what he wasn’t, so why had he woken with a boy in his bed?

His thoughts jangled in the spin of his mind as he stood beneath the shower and scrubbed until his skin bloomed red, great patches of colour that spoke of rabid shame. All those times he’d paused at the housemaster’s desk; all the smart rejoinders and their witty repartees. Had it all been flirting? The thought of it made him retch with guilt.

Chapter Three

Zara sagged on the mat and swiped a string of hair from her face. It stuck there stubbornly and she pinched it with her nails to peel it away. She watched the pair in the centre: a willowy redhead and Barry, their instructor. He, a heavyset man with a bullish neck, squeezed an arm around the woman’s waist, a vein straining beneath his flesh.

‘Hi-yah!’ she yelled dramatically and slammed her elbow into his liver, bending forward as she did so to slip from his grip. She whooped, then turned and high-fived him.

Zara glanced at her sister. ‘Really?’ she mouthed.

Lena pressed the air with a palm, asking her for patience.

Zara rolled her eyes. She knew that this class with its shouty statement of female empowerment was merely a means to make money. The truth was that a ten-week course on self-defence couldn’t teach you to protect yourself. She had felt the unbridled power of a man who hadn’t pulled his punches, hadn’t shown mercy, had held every inch of his strength against hers and she’d known she couldn’t fight him.

Lena had enrolled them in the fortnightly class when Zara had recovered. Months later, she remained unmoved. She – five feet four and slight – could go to all the classes she liked but she could never overpower a man.

Women could fight for equality in boardrooms and courtrooms but at the basest level – in hand-to-hand combat – men would always win. Perhaps this was why so many used soothing words and revealed their skin to manoeuvre the men in their lives.

What would happen, wondered Zara, if appeasement were offered earlier? If society treated men more gently, perhaps they would be gentler. Instead of placing them in the hard, small cage of masculinity, could we allow them to feel more deeply? She remembered Sofia’s words: ‘Sensitivity is unbecoming in a man.’ Hadn’t Zara thought the very same thing? Hadn’t she dumped Sameer at uni because he was too needy? Because he followed her around like a dog, wouldn’t let her go alone to the campus shop to collect painkillers for her period? She remembered the exact moment she decided to leave him: when she tried to adjust her hair and his hand went with hers, not wanting to lose her grip. He had cried when she told him and hadn’t that made her feel queasy? Hadn’t she wondered why she’d wasted five months of her life on him?

Even now, she felt a shiver of distaste when dining with a nervous date: his hand shaking as he poured the wine, a film of sweat on his forehead, nervous chatter as he perused the menu – and so wasn’t she part of the problem too, feeding the fragile egos that had slammed her against that wall?

Barry now had the woman on her knees, standing beside her and gripping her neck. There was a gleam in his eye. He was enjoying this. The redhead struggled and he held her there a moment too long, before letting her unseat him. This was a charade. Put them both in a deserted alley and there was no way she would fight him off.

Kamran stared at the name on screen: Zara Kaleel. The message had arrived last night and he’d sent it straight to the bin, but found himself returning to it. He thought of her in the news last year, so quick and confident. He had confided in her because he knew she would understand. She – like him – couldn’t just be who she wanted. She had to answer to her community. It’s true he was cocooned from the sharpest edge of it, but he still felt its pinpricks poised on his skin. He had to be discreet and despite turning up at his home, Zara understood this. With the dredge of distress in his stomach, he held his breath and opened the message.

Kamran, here are some resources that might help you through what you’re experiencing. I’ve made an appointment for you to have a medical exam tomorrow and to meet with me and a SOIT (Sexual Offences Investigation Trained) police officer on Monday 11th May. She is excellent and I trust her. We can take your report and decide what to do after. I hope you will come. We’ll be waiting.

Beneath it lay two sets of dates, times and locations – each on a neat new line. He checked his watch. He had already missed the medical exam but Monday was in two days and he could still meet the police officer. He would be back at Hampton but could claim a trip to the family doctor.

Kamran caught himself, startled by his readiness to formulate a plan. It shook him, for it exposed what he wanted at heart: a chance to tell someone what had happened to him. But what would it cost him and the people he loved? Would he upend their lives for nothing? Kamran reread the words on screen, then reached out with a trembling hand and archived the message.

Downstairs, Sofia sat at the breakfast bar, her head cocked at the ceiling as she tried to glean if Kamran was at least watching TV. Met with silence, she attempted to busy herself on her laptop. She navigated to her email and reread the reply from Jonathan Walmsley. She understood the message couched in his genteel words: your ideas are useless. She slumped and closed her laptop, but then immediately straightened at the sound of footsteps.

Her husband walked in, his gait unmistakeable. He had a natural confidence which had no doubt played a vital part in growing his family’s company: an international purveyor of medical supplies. Behind the boorish exterior, he was a deeply astute businessman, knowing just when to use an expletive to put someone at ease or rein in his humour when faced with someone prim.

‘Morning, hon.’ He gave her a kiss on the cheek and though he was clean-shaven, he still felt rough on her skin.

‘You’re not in the office today?’ she asked, noting his casual outfit: a pale yellow polo shirt paired with khaki trousers.

He picked up one of the croissants that Sofia had arranged on the breakfast bar and took a wide bite, sending flakes of pastry sweeping across the granite. Absently, he brushed them off the counter. Sofia tensed as she watched the flakes dust the spotless floor.

‘No. I told you, hon. I’m meeting Al about the Medicare deal.’

‘Oh.’ He hadn’t told her. ‘Is there anything to worry about?’

Mack drained the coffee pot into a mug and took a hearty swig. ‘Of course not.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. At fifty-six, he maintained a strong physique and towered over her at six feet three. ‘It’s under control.’

She sensed he was ready to leave and spoke her next words quickly. ‘Do you think I should call the doctor about Kamran? He’s not looking very well and I’m worried about him.’

Mack rolled his eyes good-naturedly. ‘He’ll be fine, hon. Stop mothering him.’

She bristled. ‘I hate it when you say that.’

‘I know you do.’ He brushed her chin with a finger. ‘But I love it when you sulk.’ He leaned in and kissed her lips, leaving behind the bitter blast of coffee. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He picked up a second croissant. ‘But I’ll be home for dinner.’

Sofia watched him leave and then put on a fresh pot of coffee. As she poured herself a cup, she remembered their first date all those years ago; how she was dismayed by his aggressive manner in dealing with the waiter. He had crooked his finger at him and asked for the menu as soon as they’d sat down.

When the couple at the next table spent many minutes laughing and joking with the same man, Sofia had felt strangely inferior. The waiter was good at his job and changed his demeanour for Mack: attentive, dignified, restrained, not presuming to make recommendations like he did with the couple next door. Sofia had smiled tightly and ordered the gnocchi with truffles, the least messy dish on the menu. She didn’t want slippery linguini messing up her lipstick or, horrifyingly, the white crepe-overlay of her tasteful gown.

Luckily, things improved over the course of the meal. Mack was a natural storyteller and regaled her with tales of his childhood, his ever-complaining mother and taciturn father, mimicking them with comic skill. She couldn’t help but laugh at the pin-perfect impression of archetypal Asian aunties.

Sofia knew that laughing made her nose look wide and she placed her hand above it, shielding it from view. That night, Mack had kissed her so hotly and every inch of her sang for his skin but she was well aware of men like him: bold, presumptuous, bored by easy conquests, and so she had leaned away from him, heart strobing in her chest. Over the next four dates, she teased him, each time offering a little bit more. God, she’d been beautiful at twenty-six. Now, twenty years later, age was unavoidable. She looked after herself assiduously and, with her clothes on, could pass for ten years younger. When naked in the mirror, however, the dimpled skin across her stomach and doughy band around her hips gave away the truth.

She and Mack had settled into a charade of sorts. When she bent over to pick something up, he’d make a growling sound, might even grab her with feigned lust, pretending he still wanted her. When he caught her topless in their bedroom mirror, he’d raise his brows lasciviously and she’d bat him away playfully, both knowing that neither had the energy or desire to take things any further.

He had been so amorous when they were younger and for many years into their marriage. Did sex drive switch off like a bulb or was it now aimed at someone younger? She often suspected that he had a mistress: a twenty-something waitress or pretty receptionist and wondered if she really cared. She loved Mack, genuinely, but in maturity had come to accept that sex was merely sex. If Mack finding satisfaction elsewhere meant that her family stayed intact, then so be it. Her priority was her children and making sure they were happy and safe. As long as that was true, everything else would be okay.

Zara entered Bow Road Police Station and made her way to an interview room. She knocked and entered, hit by the smell of stale fast food. Mia Scavo stood and shook her hand. The officer wore formless clothes in black and grey and her light blonde hair in a trademark bun: severe and scraped back with not a loose strand.

‘Thanks for this,’ said Zara.

‘Not at all.’ Mia gestured towards a chair. ‘I take it you’re ready for another big case?’

Zara gave her a rueful look. ‘“Ready” might be an overstatement.’

Mia tapped her pen against her notebook. ‘Have you heard from Jodie at all?’

‘No, but I did hear she’s starting college in September.’

‘That’s good.’

They fell silent for a moment. They had last worked together on Jodie Wolfe’s case and remembered its multiple blows: first, Jodie’s admission that she had lied, then the realisation that she had not, followed by the final strike: Amir, the ringleader, set free and the others handed nominal sentences. In a few short months, they too would be free. Given the conviction rates for rape, this one was a win but the wounds from the case still smarted.

‘It was worth the fight,’ said Mia, knowing what Zara was thinking.

‘I know,’ she replied quietly. ‘We take what we can get.’

A knock on the door cut in and Zara looked up to find Kamran at the threshold. She stood and guided him in. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, feeling a wash of relief. A part of her had thought that he wouldn’t turn up at all and though that would absolve her, she would always harbour some guilt.

Kamran took a seat. ‘I… I missed the medical exam last week.’

‘I know,’ said Zara. ‘That’s okay.’

‘But I called them this morning and they let me go in, so… that’s done.’

‘On your own?’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘They had someone there to help.’

Zara felt a swell of sympathy. ‘Okay, thank you. I’ll coordinate with them.’ She introduced him to Mia and explained that she, a SOIT officer, would take his statement now.

Kamran nodded, a long muscle twitching in his jaw.

Mia eased into the interview, first asking about his school, friends and hobbies, before broaching the assault.

‘It was the start of our spring exeat,’ said Kamran. ‘I was supposed to spend the weekend at a friend’s but it was cancelled at the last minute, so I went to a party instead.’ He grimaced. ‘Hampton is strict during term time but they loosen the reins before breaks.’

‘Were you drinking?’ asked Mia.

Kamran nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know how much?’

His shoulders stiffened with guilt. ‘I started with a few beers – three maybe – but then there was other stuff. It’s a tradition at Hampton that you swipe something from your parents so there was all sorts there: whisky, cognac, port. Someone even brought some sherry.’

‘After three beers, how many other drinks do you think you had?’

Kamran’s gaze dropped to his lap. For a moment, he studied the arc of his nails. ‘Another four or five maybe. I’m not certain.’

Zara watched from the sidelines, knowing this would be used for leverage if it proceeded to court.

Kamran continued. ‘Initially, I tried not to drink too much. My brother, Adam, was there and Mum always tells me to set an example because he’ll follow my lead. I don’t think she understands that he’s his own person.’

‘Did you talk to him?’ asked Mia.

‘Briefly. At the start of the evening. I told him not to drink too much.’ Kamran’s face twisted in a grimace. ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

Mia made a note. ‘Okay, Kamran, can you walk me through the evening in as much detail as possible?

He nodded. The party had been loud, he remembered. The boys were in a boisterous mood, which is why he was amused by the neat row of bin bags propped against a tree. Even in the throes of abandon, the boys couldn’t escape the stamp of their school. Hamptonians were meant to be fine young gentlemen: phlegmatic, restrained and respectful. Littering wasn’t a part of that ethos. He remembered the loud game of beer pong and Adam looking characteristically solemn. He hadn’t seen Finn at the party; he would have been at West Lawn, swilling drinks with friends of his own.

Kamran added detail where possible: clouds sulking at the edge of the sky, the hundred mites in amber light. The way you could, at this extreme end of the campus, hear the faint thrum of traffic; a reminder that there was a wild and boundless world right outside these walls.

At Mia’s request, he recalled what he, Jimmy, Barrett and Nathan had talked about that night. There was nothing unusual: pressure about their grades, how Nathan’s parents were likely getting divorced but were going to Vahine Island anyway for a last-gasp attempt at saving their marriage – the first-world problems of first-world people. Things like rape weren’t supposed to happen to boys like him. This wasn’t a part of his upward trajectory.

Kamran led Mia through the excesses of the evening to that moment in any party where people start to depart and no one knows if the mood will turn intimate or desolate; whether you will have a deep conversation with someone fun or end up in a bathroom crying. He, in a stupor of drink, chose not to take the risk. He headed home: westwards to West Lawn.

Had he seen anyone along the way? He pictured the expanse of grass. There were figures shifting in the dark but nothing of note or threat. He had continued along the path, lamplight splashing in pools on the concrete. His brogues were soundless on the ground and he remembered thinking that Hampton was made for silence. Silence in the libraries, silence in the halls, silence even in lessons when the only sign of life would be magpies crowing outside.

At West Lawn, he had tapped in his personal key code: 21 007, a fact that pleased him greatly.

‘Hadid,’ he would say to his friends in the early days. ‘Kamran Hadid,’ pretending to unholster a gun.

Jimmy would laugh. ‘A brown Bond? That’ll be the day.’

That night, he entered to silence. He glanced at the housemaster’s office and crept up the stairs to his room. He fumbled with his key, his fingers limp and clammy. Eventually, he slotted it home and turned it with a creak.

He shut the door with his left leg, the ball of his foot tapping the wood and closing it too loudly. Their doors didn’t lock automatically. Had he locked his? He remembered the clang of the metal key: a £50 fine if he lost it. He tossed it on the dresser and it fell to the floor in a jangle. He emptied his pockets and pulled his shirt off over his head. He brushed his teeth and splashed his face with water. What after that? His head vibrating and blooms of bursting black. Were they in his eyes or in his head – he couldn’t tell. What happened after that?

Kamran slackened in his chair. ‘I can’t remember.’

Mia circled some text in her notebook. ‘You said you don’t think you locked your door? How certain are you about this?’

‘I’m not certain. I just don’t remember doing it.’

‘Did you close the door?’

‘Yes. I remember it being too loud.’

Mia made a note. ‘Okay, you said you remember taking off your shirt. Did you take off your trousers?’

Kamran considered this. ‘Yes. I think I just wore my boxers to bed.’

‘Are you sure?’

He hesitated. ‘I’m not certain but I think I did.’

Zara watched, knowing that the sequence of events had to be exact. Mia had to scour the surface until every last detail held up to scrutiny. A full picture now would prevent the possibility of a harmful surprise.

‘What happened next?’

Kamran winced. ‘I can’t remember. I’d drunk so much, my head was turning black.’

Zara stiffened. She knew that jurors would hear this, some of whom would blame the drink. Reasonable men and women understood that consent should be proactive and explicit, and would agree as much in the clear wash of day, but behind closed doors, they held darker thoughts; that if you got so drunk you couldn’t move, maybe, just maybe, you were asking for it.

Mia pressed Kamran on, pushing him through the murk to his next clear memory.

‘There was someone else in the bed,’ he said. ‘I remember them pressing into me.’ He bit his lower lip, working loose a piece of dry skin.

‘Kamran, I need you to tell me exactly what you remember. It’s okay if there are gaps, but tell me what you do know.’

He dug a thumbnail into the chipboard edge of the table. ‘I remember feeling vaguely awake as if I were in a dream. I remember a body behind me and…’ His shoulders rose and fell with the effort of finding words. ‘I felt fingers hooking into the elastic band of my boxers. He… he had a hand on my thigh and I remember it was warm.’ Kamran paused. ‘I can’t say exactly what happened but I know he reached forward and touched me.’

‘Where?’

‘My penis.’ His voice took on a powerless tilt.

‘What happened after this?’

Kamran flushed with colour. ‘I… I grew hard.’ His eyes flicked to Zara. ‘But I read that this was normal.’

Mia nodded but made no comment. ‘What happened next?’

Kamran faltered. ‘He—’

Zara watched him try to find the right word. Entered me? Violated me? Raped me?

‘It’s all jumbled up in my head.’

Mia waited.

‘He tried to push inside me but it was like he wasn’t really trying.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. I think he tried once or twice and then we fell asleep.’

Mia made a note. ‘Did he penetrate you?’

Kamran nodded. ‘Yes, but only a little bit.’

‘Did you feel any pain?’

‘Yes, but it’s all hazy in my head.’

‘And did he ejaculate?’

‘Yes. He—’ Kamran grimaced. ‘When he couldn’t do what he wanted, he sort of rubbed himself on me and then I think he came.’

‘Did you?’

Kamran drew back in his seat. ‘No.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I fell asleep.’

‘What’s the next thing you remember?’

Kamran recalled his waking moments. Victims often spoke of ‘before’ and ‘after’, two epochs divided by trauma. Had he known that morning that something was wrong? He had turned in his bed and there it was: a shock of blond hair, the bulk of a stranger’s body and the sharp jab of horror. He’d bargained with himself: maybe Finn had entered the wrong room and fallen in his bed in a drunken stupor. Maybe nothing had happened at all. Maybe he’d undressed in the dark and hadn’t realised there was someone in the room.

He had stared at Finn in the crisp light of morning and felt the press of nausea. Something had happened, he knew. Finn stirred by his side and that’s when Kamran froze, unsure what to do. He dressed and fled before Finn could wake, heading to the gym and straight to the shower.

Had he wanted it? He’d got hard, hadn’t he? Kamran stayed under the hot shower until he heard the voices of the polo team. He wrapped himself up quickly and locked himself inside a cubicle, his breath coming much too fast. Something had happened and Kamran hadn’t asked for it.

‘By the time I returned, he was gone.’

‘Did you tell anyone about it?’ asked Mia.

‘No.’

‘Have you spoken to Finn about it?’

‘No.’

‘What happened after that?’

‘I picked up my brother. We met our driver and went home.’

Mia closed her notebook. ‘Thank you, Kamran. You’ve done a very brave thing coming to report this.’ She explained that the police would now start to gather evidence.

Kamran worried the cuff of his sleeve. ‘Can I choose not to bring a formal complaint?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happens then?’

Mia set down her pen. ‘We store the evidence we have in case you change your mind.’

‘Nothing happens to Finn?’

‘No.’

Kamran digested this. ‘Can I think about it?’ He looked at Zara, a hesitant wilt in his gaze. ‘“Rapist” is such an ugly word and I… I just need to think about what I’m saying.’

‘Of course.’ Mia asked him to take a few days.

They finished and Zara beckoned him up. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back.’ Outside, she cast him a sidelong glance as they walked to her car. ‘Have you told your mum?’

‘She wouldn’t understand.’

‘I think you’d be surprised.’

He frowned. ‘My mum, she… she shields us from the world. I’m seventeen and I’ve never used the London Underground alone.’ He got in the car and clicked in his seatbelt. ‘I once told Jimmy that I wasn’t sure we’d cope in the real world and do you know what he said? “The whole point of Hampton is that we never have to deal with real people in the real world.” I realised he was right.’ Kamran’s lips twisted bitterly. ‘That same week, my mum read a statistic that fourteen million people in the UK were living in poverty and you know what she did? She laughed. “That’s not true, is it?” she said. “Look around. It’s clearly not true!”’ Kamran shook his head. ‘A woman like my mum should never have to learn that something like this happened to her son.’

Zara felt a swell of sorrow. ‘She will understand, Kamran. You don’t have to feel embarrassed.’

He exhaled softly and turned away from her – a gentle closing of the conversation – and remained that way for the rest of the drive.

Zara dropped him off at Hampton and as she said goodbye, she felt her conscience needle. ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed,’ she had said. Why was it that she seldom used that word with women but reached for it first with Kamran as if it should be the foremost emotion in a man who’d been raped?

She watched him in the early evening light, a brittleness in his shoulders, a cold varnish in his eyes. ‘Kamran, don’t lose yourself in this, okay?’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I won’t,’ he said and she could tell from the dart of his eyes that he was aching to take his leave.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said. She watched him walk across the green until his silhouette vanished in a dip.

Zara checked her watch, then headed back to East London, speeding along the A501 to beat rush-hour traffic. She drove to her mother’s house, perched on a side street in Bow. Zara’s childhood home was a squat two-storey building with a small, neatly kept front garden. She unlatched the black cast-iron gate and made sure she shut it again. Her mother preferred it that way, the gate’s low whine announcing visitors a few beats before the doorbell.

Sure enough, Fatima peeked through the downstairs window, pulling aside a bright white curtain. A moment later, she opened the door.

‘Assalamu Alaikum,’ said Zara, kissing her mother’s cheek.

‘Walaikum assalam,’ she replied.

It was strange, this merciless passage of time. Last year, she had vowed to be kinder to her mother, but it was easier thought than done. It was true that she was more patient now and a little less defensive, but still they lacked the easy facility of mother-daughter relationships. Zara knew that this was partly due to the choices she had made. In refusing to stay in her arranged marriage and quitting her job in chambers, Zara had flouted her mother’s wishes and they had never quite recovered.

‘Go and sit,’ said Fatima, gesturing towards the living room. ‘I’m going to read Asr, but your sisters are here.’ She headed upstairs for prayer.

Zara greeted Lena and Salma. ‘Is Rafiq here?’ she asked.

‘Not today,’ replied Lena.

Zara visibly relaxed. She knew her brother disapproved of her life – an unmarried Asian girl living alone – and though they were making amends, their truce had proved uneasy.

Lena handed her a cup of tea. ‘Are you still on for our class next week?’

‘If we must,’ said Zara.

Salma, the eldest, cut in. ‘Is this the self-defence class?’

‘Yeah,’ said Zara. ‘But I still think it’s a waste of time.’

Salma watched her. ‘Let’s hope you’ll never find out.’

The three of them fell silent. Zara’s gaze dipped low as she blinked away the memory: her scream snuffed by the force of a palm, her body jolting upwards, her sisters in a funereal huddle outside her hospital room.

Salma pushed forward a plate of biscuits to break the spell of her words. ‘So what are you working on now?’ she asked.

Zara took a moment to find an answer, still caught in the memory. ‘It’s, uh, it’s a tricky one,’ she said, folding away the image.

‘Oh?’ Salma had an analytical mind and always took an interest in her work.

Zara cupped her hands around her tea. ‘I can’t say too much,’ she started, ‘but I was in the office last Monday when a client – well spoken, polite, clearly from a rich family – came in to report an assault.’

‘Okay.’ Salma waited, the case seemingly lacking the requisite drama.

‘He said he was raped by someone he knows.’

Salma paused mid-sip. ‘“He”?’ She winced. ‘Please don’t say it was a child.’

‘No – well…’ Zara hesitated, wary of revealing too much. ‘He’s seventeen.’

‘Who did it? A teacher?’

‘No. A pupil,’ she conceded.

Salma frowned. ‘A pupil? Then why didn’t he fight back?’

Lena interjected. ‘Would you ask the same question if it was a woman?’ She was the most sensitive of the three sisters: Little Women’s Beth to Salma’s Meg and Zara’s Jo.

Salma huffed. ‘No, I wouldn’t, but a man’s clearly more able to defend himself.’

Lena’s lips tightened to a line. ‘If you say so,’ she said obliquely.

Salma rolled her eyes and turned back to Zara. ‘What do you know about the other guy?’

‘The rapist?’

Salma made a peculiar expression, her brow arched in doubt. ‘Yeah, “the rapist”, I suppose.’

Zara’s head tipped to one side. ‘What do you mean “I suppose”?’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like there was any force.’

‘And neither was there consent.’

Salma raised a palm. ‘No, I know that. Obviously it is “rape” technically, but it’s not a violent, terrifying one. I don’t think you can compare it to what women go through.’

‘What about women who get date raped?’

‘Well, that’s different,’ Salma insisted. ‘Women are physically weaker. I just don’t think it’s the same with a man against a man.’

Zara digested this. The shame of male rape was caused exactly by statements like this. The stigma of weakness was thick and cowing. ‘I don’t think that’s right,’ she said, ‘but to answer your question: I don’t know very much about him yet.’

‘Is he gay?’

‘I can’t say for sure.’

Salma shook her head with wonder. ‘God, it must be hard. I’m glad we don’t have to deal with that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there’s no such a thing as a gay Muslim, is there?’

Zara blinked. ‘I don’t think—’

‘I mean, I know they’re out there,’ Salma interrupted. ‘But what I don’t get is why people like that cling to religion. I don’t have anything against gays obviously, but if you are gay, how can you still be Catholic or Muslim?’

Zara studied her sister. There was no malice in her tone, just a curious ignorance. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘I don’t think it is,’ said Salma. ‘You’re either this or that. You can’t be both.’

Zara tried to decide if it was worth fighting this battle, for she knew she wearied her sisters. They were gentle in their joshing – ‘Zara the Brave comes to the rescue!’, ‘Zara the Brave will conquer you!’ – but there was some truth behind the humour. Her refusal to let things lie or concede an inch of ground often made their debates exhausting.

Zara took a sip of her tea, then met Salma’s gaze. ‘Okay, what if one of your boys – let’s say Yakub – turns sixteen in a few years and tells you that he’s gay. How would you react?’

‘Well, I mean…’ Salma flexed her shoulders as if gearing for a fight. ‘I would accept it.’

‘So there would be no angry arguments, no tears, no tantrums?’

Salma hesitated. ‘Well, there would be tears but only because I’d be scared for him. Life is hard enough and this would only make it harder.’

Zara nodded. ‘Okay, but there would be no cataclysmic event? No kicking him out of the house? No disownment? No sending him to Bangladesh?’

Salma flinched. ‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’

‘Okay, so he would still live in your house, cook with you, go to school, take out the bins as normal?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’d do what his brothers would do? Play football? Go to the cinema? Spend too much time online?’

Salma’s lips curled in a half smile. ‘Yes.’

‘Would he still celebrate Eid with you?’

She shrugged. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Would he still go to Friday prayer with his brothers?’

‘Yes.’ There was a tiny catch in her voice.

‘Would he go to janazahs at mosque?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would he still give zakat?’

‘Yes.’ Now, her voice was small.

‘You would want him to be a part of that?’

Salma was silent. Her features blanched with sorrow. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Would you deny him any of that or expect him to remain at home?’

Her eyes grew glassy. ‘No.’

‘Okay,’ said Zara gently. ‘I guess that’s how you can be gay and Muslim.’

Salma swiped discreetly at her eyes. ‘God, I can tell you were a lawyer.’ She laughed but it was a blare of a sound, designed to mask something deeper. She picked up her cup of tea and hugged it to her chest.

Zara gently pushed the plate of biscuits back towards her sister.

Kamran pulled the blanket tighter and bunched the folds around his neck. There was something unremittingly cruel about having to be in this room. This, his supposed sanctuary, was also the scene of the crime and though he had washed his sheets three times, they still felt befouled.

He tried to give shape to the weight of his trauma. He thought of it as a thick bar of fluorescent light that hummed from throat to groin. Real healing would dim that light, snuff out sections until it grew dark – but how could he heal if he couldn’t remember? Instead, he would push down the pain until it was a sun-bright penny lodged in his gut. That’s where he’d let it burn.

A thought slithered into his mind, making his stomach clench. Perhaps the only way to understand what had happened was to talk to Finn. Together, they would talk and together they’d forget. After all, it was one drunken night. Isn’t this what happened at boys’ schools? Experimentation? Liberation? Wasn’t this just another experience?

Kamran traced his hands along the underside of the blanket: soft white fleece that sometimes came off on his clothes. He pushed his fingers into it, marshalling his strength. He took a bracing breath and tossed the blanket off him, the sweep of his arm feigning courage. He walked across the room, a stony chill on the soles of his feet, and pulled on his shoes and blazer. He glanced at the wall clock. It was 4.30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. Finn would be manning the housemaster’s office for at least another half hour.

He picked up his knobby metal key and walked into the hall. He felt a vinegar sting in his throat and swallowed once, then twice, to clear it. He descended three flights to the housemaster’s office and knocked on the open door.

‘Come in,’ called Finn before looking up.

Kamran stepped inside, his loafers clicking flatly on the polished wooden floor.

Finn smiled. ‘Hadid Major. How may I help you today?’

Kamran closed the door behind him. ‘May I sit?’

Finn gestured generously. ‘Of course.’ As assistant to the housemaster, he was used to pupils asking for his time.

Kamran sat in a chair, a large Chesterfield of squeaky burgundy leather. He traced the padded armrest, his fingers dipping in the seams between.

‘Problems?’ asked Finn.

‘I… I’ve come to talk about Friday.’

‘Oh?’ Finn checked his desk calendar. ‘Friday the eighth?’

Kamran tensed. ‘Friday the first. I want to talk about what happened.’

Finn smiled accommodatingly. ‘Okay.’

Kamran waited. ‘I want you to tell me what happened.’

Finn frowned. ‘With what?’

‘With us.’

His chin tilted at an angle. ‘With us?’

Kamran felt a flare of anger. ‘Stop playing the idiot. Look, I don’t want this to go any further. I just want to understand what happened.’

Finn sat back in his chair, his lips poised in a patient smile. ‘Kamran, do you want to tell me what you’re talking about?’

‘Friday night!’ His voice was high and bitter. ‘You were in my fucking room!’

Finn tensed, his features strained with alarm. ‘Look, before you say anything else, I want to tell you that I—’

‘You what? That you’re a faggot!?’

Finn blanched. ‘Don’t use that ugly word.’

Kamran felt his conscience spark but it was snuffed out by anger.

‘What happened?’ asked Finn. ‘Did someone spot us or—’

‘How could you do it?’ spat Kamran.

Finn held up a defensive hand. ‘Look, it takes two to do what we did.’

Kamran jabbed a finger at him. ‘Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare fucking say that.’

‘I… what do you want me to say?’

‘Tell me what happened. Tell me exactly what happened.’

Finn grimaced. ‘You know what happened.’

‘No, I fucking don’t!’ He clenched his fingers around the arm of his chair. ‘I want you to tell me.’

Finn exhaled quietly. ‘Okay, well, firstly, we were both drunk. You know I went to the spring fundraiser.’

‘How much did you drink?’

‘Too much.’

‘How much?’

Finn hesitated. ‘About seven drinks.’

‘What do you remember?’

‘I don’t. Not really. I was coming back from the party. It was about two. I went to your room and—’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t need to spell it out.’

Kamran stared at him. How could he be so casual about it? ‘Are you gay?’ he asked.

Finn made a small sibilant sound. ‘Well, yeah. What do you think?’

‘You disgust me.’

He flinched. ‘Don’t say that.’

Kamran felt a spike of emotion: a profound urge to hurt him.

Finn scooted his chair forward. ‘Listen, I’m sorry.’ He laid a hand on Kamran’s wrist. ‘I know what your family would say and you might not want to admit it, but you know it was consensual.’

Kamran shook off his hand. ‘Don’t fucking touch me.’ He jolted up from his chair, his armpits sliding with sweat. ‘Don’t you ever touch me again.’ His skin burned with a white-hot hate. ‘Stay the fuck away from me.’ Kamran fled from the office.

What had he expected? That Finn would break down and cry? That he would deny everything? His insistence that Kamran consented was a violation of a different type: of not knowing his own mind.

But wasn’t it true in a way? Hadn’t he been so drunk that night that he hadn’t even locked his door? And hadn’t he reacted in the past to Finn’s overtures? A hot embrace on the rugby field, a reciprocal smile to his charming grin?

Is this what women go through? he wondered. A painstaking examination of each innocent action; holding cloth to light to find a sullied patch. Had Finn targeted him specifically or had he walked down the hall, twisting every handle? Was there a chance that Finn had really been drunk and not known what he was doing? Had he simply fallen into a bed only to find a warm body waiting?

Kamran put himself in Finn’s shoes; pictured himself stumbling into a room, falling into a bed, finding a sleeping woman there with soft limbs and warm breath. Would he be tempted too? Would it feel like an act of violence or just like coming home? If he found Maya in his bed, wouldn’t he too take off her clothes? Was he a potential rapist too?

Rape. The word was so harsh, so emotive. It almost did a disservice to the victim. It made the crime sound so heinous, the stench of it so strong, that one loathed to impose it on bright-eyed men, especially ones who looked like Finn.

But Finn was a rapist and what happened was an act of violence. It was true that Kamran did not fight, but neither did he consent. Finn had walked into his room uninvited and put himself inside his body, turning Kamran into a rape victim. The label was a noose round his neck, making his throat clot with muscle.

It takes two to do what we did.

How dare Finn say those words? How dare he cast Kamran as a co-conspirator? Had he done this before? Was he relying on the fact that his victims would stay silent, cowed by the spectre of shame?

Kamran felt the tang of metal in his mouth, the acid flavour of fear. He realised that he had to do it. He had to seek justice. There was no easy route from this. He picked up his phone and drafted a message to Zara. Gripping it in his fist, he left the room and headed to the green. He walked away from West Lawn until the signal grew stronger. He watched the bars grow one by one and then, with the beat of his heart going too fast, he took a deep breath and pressed send. The message contained four words that were sure to upend his life. Help me stop Finn.

Zara leaned forward so that the lamp suspended on a stem above her head didn’t shine directly on her. The restaurant was a blocky, overlit affair with art-deco prints in black, white and green. Idly, she leafed through the menu. Safran had texted her to say he’d be late. It was the lawyer’s burden, she knew. They were punctual in matters of work but often at the expense of friends. She remembered her time in chambers and how friends would lay bets on how late she would be. It was sad that she rarely saw them anymore, their time squeezed by careers and kids. In fact, Safran was the only friend she saw with any frequency.

As she waited, her hands went restlessly from her lap to her glass to her knife. She straightened her napkin so that it sat flush against the menu, inching the fork just so. Since she’d stopped taking Diazepam, she noticed herself doing this more. She had always liked neatness and order, but never before would she set her alarm five or six times in a ritual, nor would she reread an email three times before sending it off. Sometimes, she found herself reading a line over and over, especially when it came to lists. She would tell herself to stop being ridiculous and yet she’d repeat the phrase, telling herself ‘one last time, one last time’. At first, she thought it was simply withdrawal but after five weeks it still hadn’t passed. At least it followed a sequence, she reasoned. Though the act itself was irrational, the neat rituals were entirely predictable and so she didn’t seek advice. It was, after all, just a state of mind.

She glanced at her watch and ordered a lime and soda, but instead of taking a sip, she spun the glass in her palms and morosely watched the crowd: media types and city bankers. Finally, she spotted Safran who cut his way across the room and met her with a hug.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, stripping off his coat and tossing it on the back of his chair. ‘There was an emergency.’

She raised a hand. ‘I get it.’

He smiled, his left dimple dipping in his cheek. ‘Thank you.’ He nodded at a waiter who hurried over to take their order. Safran had a way about him, an easy manner that made others keen to please him.

He loosened his tie and slung it over his coat. ‘So guess what?’ he said.

‘What?’ Zara smiled instinctively.

‘I’m going on a date with a doctor tomorrow.’

‘Really?’ She feigned confusion. ‘When did Leonardo DiCaprio date a doctor?’

Safran grinned and conceded the jibe. In chambers, they’d had a running joke that Safran’s exes were DBD: Dumped By DiCaprio. Like the actor’s, Safran’s girlfriends were usually tall, slim and blonde. ‘Well, this may surprise you,’ he said, ‘but actually she’s Pakistani.’

‘No!’ Zara’s jaw dropped in mock surprise.

He gave her a sheepish look. ‘Okay, don’t laugh, but I saw her at a wedding and made the mistake of telling my brother that I thought she was pretty. He told his wife who told her mum who told an auntie and suddenly, the girl’s being proffered like a slice of lamb.’

‘Well, it’s your own fault for being such an eligible barrister.’

He laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll like her.’

‘Maybe you will.’ She felt a shimmer of discomfort at the prospect of Safran meeting someone serious. What would follow? Marriage? Kids? The natural wastage of another friendship? There was nothing romantic between them but she relied on him more than she liked to admit. He was a source of logic and calm; the person she’d call if in trouble. She thought of all the friends she had lost. One by one, they were pulled away by life, work and parenthood and then there was just her, no one to call for an impromptu coffee. Safran was the only one.

‘Hey,’ he said, coaxing her back. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She swallowed. ‘I’d be really happy for you, Saf.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Marrying an Asian doctor is such a cliché.’

‘And being an Asian lawyer isn’t?’

He laughed. ‘I’ll give you that.’

They ordered food – grilled steak for him and a sea bream fillet for her – and ate with the unselfconscious gusto of old friends, sharing memories and anecdotes from their time in court.

After the meal, they took a stroll in the mild May air, drifting naturally towards the river. The Thames was steely in the fading light and birds wheeled in the sky above. HMS Belfast stood like a shield as they descended the steps to the riverbank. The air was smoky and the chatter from the nearby restaurants added a comforting hum.

‘How’s the family?’ asked Safran.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said.

‘No, I don’t.’

She smiled faintly. ‘They’re fine. I saw them earlier this week.’

‘Was it okay?’

‘Yeah, but I got into a bit of a thing with Salma.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. It’s so fucking weird being Muslim.’

He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I wish people came with a barometer, so you could tell by looking at them how conservative they are. Will they judge you for drinking? Or wearing jeans? Or showing a bit of wrist? Where do their lines of liberalism lie? Do they have sex outside marriage? Or do they expect you to be in niqab? Like, how comfortable can I be with you? How much of myself can I show to you?’

Safran studied her. ‘Where’s this coming from?’

Zara gestured eastwards vaguely towards her mother’s home. ‘Salma. She was saying you can’t be both gay and Muslim and I was surprised by that.’

‘Why? That’s not such a radical thing to say.’

She glanced up at him. ‘You don’t think?’

‘No.’ He leaned his elbows on the cast-iron gate. ‘I’m going to sound cynical but the world is built of cliques. I’m not saying that’s right but it’s true. Some cliques are relatively small – like Old Etonians – and some cliques are huge – like Muslims – and in this drive for inclusion, we want to say that anyone is welcome anywhere and anyone can become anything but that’s not true. If you didn’t go to Eton, you can’t be an Old Etonian. If you’re gay, then it’s hard to also be a Muslim.’

Zara arched a brow. ‘See, this is what I mean about a barometer. I thought you were more liberal than that.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not about conservative versus liberal or tolerance versus intolerance. It’s just logic.’

‘So if someone told you they were a gay Muslim, you’d think they were wrong to call themselves that?’

He shrugged. ‘They can call themselves what they like. I don’t have an issue. I just think we need to stop trying to bend things to our will when they clearly don’t fit.’

Zara was surprised. Safran often played the contrarian but usually from a place of empathy.

He saw the look on her face and softened his tone. ‘Look, I’m talking from a logical standpoint. If you’re gay and you want to fall in love and have sex and enjoy the fruits of being alive, maybe you’re better off without the Islamic faith.’

Zara was affronted. ‘That’s a cold way to look at it.’

‘Maybe,’ he said mildly, ‘but I also think it’s true.’

Zara studied him, confounded by his casual dismissal. She wanted to debate and fight, but could see from his unruffled stance that his conviction was immovable. What chance did they have at progress when even men like Safran held tightly to tradition?

She turned to the Thames and watched the slate-grey waves fold onto the shore. There, standing next to her closest friend, she wondered if you ever really knew anyone at all.

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