When You Are Mine(7)

I wait for Tempe to complete the necessary paperwork, before escorting her through the waiting area.

‘I’m obliged to give you this,’ I say, handing her a tear-out form with four pages of information. ‘If you sign here, I can give your details to a support agency.’

‘I’m not signing anything,’ says Tempe. ‘I won’t be making a statement and I don’t need a chaperone.’

‘I understand, but this report will be given to the Local Safeguarding Unit. Someone will be in touch with you.’

‘I don’t want to be contacted. I don’t give my permission.’

We are outside the hospital. A group of orderlies are smoking and vaping near the doors, standing in a patch of sunshine that illuminates their exhalations. Tempe lowers her head, not wanting anyone to see her face.

‘This is a number for the National Domestic Abuse Helpline,’ I say. ‘Like I said, I’m not judging you, but I don’t think you should go back to the apartment. Not today. Give him some time to cool off.’

Tempe bites the undamaged side of her bottom lip and contemplates an answer.

‘I’ll go to the shelter,’ she whispers. ‘For one night.’

The large detached house is in the back streets of Brixton and has no outwards signs or identifiers, apart from the extra security of barred windows and a CCTV camera covering the entrance. As we approach, I notice a child standing at an upstairs window. A girl. I wave. She doesn’t wave back.

The intercom sends a jingle echoing through distant rooms.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a woman’s voice.

I hold up my warrant card to the camera and give my name and rank. ‘Do you have room for one more?’

‘Won’t be a tick,’ says the voice.

We wait another minute until the twin deadlocks turn and the door swings open on creaky hinges. A large woman smiles and ushers us quickly inside, checking the street before locking the door again.

‘Call me Beth,’ she says, in a no-nonsense voice. ‘First names only in here. Cassie is upstairs with another new arrival – a mum and two kiddies. The little boy is a doll.’

We climb. She talks. Tempe’s room has a single bed, a wardrobe and a sink in the corner. The furniture looks like something from a motorway Travelodge, but everything is clean, with cheerful touches like the colourful prints on the walls and a small vase of flowers on the windowsill.

‘You’ll be sharing the other facilities,’ says Beth. ‘We have a laundry room downstairs and a secure garden. The kitchen is a busy area, but you’re allowed to prepare your own meals. We have a cleaning roster for the communal areas.’ She ties back the curtains. ‘Do you have any other clothes?’

‘No.’

‘We have a pool clothing system. Nothing fancy, but you’ll find something that fits you.’

She puts a set of sheets on the mattress, along with a pillow-case.

‘Spare blankets are on the top shelf.’ She points to the wardrobe. ‘Once you’re settled, come downstairs and we’ll fill out the admission forms.’

‘I won’t be staying long,’ says Tempe, glancing at me.

‘Makes no difference. It’s the protocol. You’ll have to fill in a Housing Benefit form and sign your licence agreement. I’ll also give you a copy of the house rules.’

‘There are rules?’

‘No visitors, no alcohol, no drugs, no bullying, no threatening staff. I’ll be your support worker. We can have a session once you’re signed in.’

‘I told you, I’m not staying,’ says Tempe, even more adamant.

‘Give it a chance,’ I say.

Beth looks at her face and clucks sympathetically. ‘I’ll get you some ice.’ She has one hand on the door handle. ‘Is he looking for you?’

Tempe doesn’t answer.

‘Don’t tell anyone where you are. This is a secure address. We have mothers and children who finally feel safe. We want to keep it that way.’

My phone pings. Nish has sent me a text:

You should get back here ASAP.



‘It’s all right, you can leave,’ says Tempe.

Halfway down the stairs, my shoulder radio squawks. ‘Mike Bravo 471, this is Control, are you receiving?’

‘This is Mike Bravo 471, go ahead, over.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m leaving the shelter in Brixton.’

‘Report to the custody suite.’

‘Received, out.’

Tempe and Beth are on the landing.

‘I’ll call you,’ I say, but Tempe doesn’t reply.

Outside, a bank of dark clouds has cloaked the sun and the temperature has fallen five degrees in the space of a few minutes. Unlocking the patrol car, I slide behind the wheel and feel a hollow emptiness in my stomach. All is not well.





2


The walk through the station is a strange one. I sense that people are watching me, peering over computer screens and pretending to read reports, but nobody wants to make eye contact. I have tried to call Nish, but he’s not answering.

Two shaven-headed men wearing army surplus clothes are being processed in the custody suite. They’ve been arrested for fighting and are still hurling abuse at each other. I wait outside Sergeant Connelly’s office, sitting opposite a narrow window that gives back a watery reflection. I touch my hair and nurse my hat on my lap.