Déjà vu.
Only, not really. I’ve definitely been in this situation before, only this time I’m no longer the witness. I’m the “victim”.
I hate that word.
“So.” Detective Moran, the officer interviewing me, glances at his notebook. “You say that you were alone in the, ah, special collections room?”
I nod, casting my eyes down guiltily and trying to avoid Ruth’s gaze. She reaches over to squeeze my hand, her heavily ringed fingers closing over mine. She looks tired, her skin ashy and pale.
“It’s fine, Niamh. Just tell them what happened. All that matters is that you and Jess are safe.”
“But I’ve already told them everything!” I wrap the thin, police-issue blanket tighter around me, struggling to warm up. The cool draughts of air remind me of the library. I bet they do it on purpose: crank the air-con right up, just to unnerve people.
I shift in my chair (which is so uncomfortable it surely breaks several of my human rights) trying to redistribute my weight without jarring my left foot, which is currently propped up and covered with an ice pack. One bum cheek is completely asleep, so it’s tough going, but I manage. I wiggle my toes experimentally and am relieved that, despite the definite twinge in my ankle, everything seems to be in full working order. The police doctor said it was a bad sprain but not a break.
It’s flaming sore, though.
“I’m sorry, Miss Hughes,” Detective Moran sighs, scratching his salt and pepper stubble. “This is procedure. I know it might be difficult for you but, well, we seem to have a situation on our hands.” More hot tears streak down my face, my skin already tight from crying, and his gaze softens a little. His eyes are bloodshot, too. “Really, Niamh, your statement will be a huge help. No one else has been able to provide us with a proper account of what happened, not since the beginning.”
I look up.
“Beginning? You mean Sara?”
“Uh, no.” Detective Moran flips back to the start of his notebook. “There was an attack on June 28th. The young woman survived but she was badly shaken. She was walking home from. . .”
“June 28th?” I interrupt him again and he clears his throat irritably.
“Yes.”
My mind whirs. Late June – I was still at home then! I didn’t even arrive here until the middle of July. Some of the tension in my shoulders begins to unravel and I feel lighter than I have in a while.
I can’t be the link, after all.
“Niamh?” Detective Moran’s voice nudges me back to the present. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes, yeah it’s fine. I’m fine.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what happened as best I can.”
And I try, going over every little detail I can dredge up. Brains are weird, though; what was once so clear is now a hazy mash of heightened survival instincts and pure horror. The actual events have been diluted and I’m already sifting through the events, starting to assign a rational explanation to each part.
“And you said that the perpetrator touched you?”
“Yes.” This is one memory that still has the power to bring up bile from the pit of my stomach.
“On your face?” The detective mimics the movement with his blue biro, the chewed end tracing a path down his rough cheek.
I nod.
“You don’t have any visible marks, though. In fact, you only suffered one injury.” He gestures to my elevated foot. “Why do you think he left your face uninjured?
I shrug, still cold despite the blanket. How should I know? Detective Moran leans across the table, shifting his empty coffee cup out of the way to show me his notes.
“First victim: Mary Stevens. Injuries to the face and head. Second victim: Sara Mondrial, deceased. Injuries to the face, head and neck. Third victim: Natasha. . .”
The heavy metal door of the interview room crashes open. I realize I’ve physically recoiled from Detective Moran’s words, now all curled up and small in my chair.
“That’s enough!” A voice booms as someone comes through the door.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
