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Helen sat alone in the sterile room, staring at the ceiling, wishing she was anywhere but here. She was still trying to process the events of the morning, stunned that a day that had started so brightly could have suddenly pitched into such abject misery.

To her, it still felt as if all this was happening to someone else.

The passer-by helping her to her feet, the earnest enquiry of the attending paramedics, the concerned look on their faces – Helen seemed to experience all this at a remove, barely taking in the details.

Perhaps she was still in shock, perhaps it was just deep denial, but she found it hard to believe that any of this was real.

Even when the emergency gynaecologist had hurried into the examination room, gently asking her to remove her trousers and underwear, still none of it felt believable. It was like a bad dream.

Helen had suffered throughout her life, never more so than during her time in Southampton, when she had put body and soul on the line time and again to protect the weak and vulnerable.

Past injuries, past traumas, had been breathless, agonizing, occasionally exhilarating affairs, wounds she had willingly endured to serve the greater good.

How ironic that the cruellest blow should land in an atmosphere of austere calm, in near-total silence, the only sound in the hushed examination room the monotonous ticking of the clock, which Helen had noted was running ten minutes slow, her eyes glued to it throughout.

She felt empty and dizzy, her memory of the morning fragmentary at best. She remembered her chat with Charlie, her feelings of optimism as she sped away from Southampton Central and then this – a grim parade of anguish, violence, injury and failure.

Was a miscarriage always likely, given her age?

Or was this tragedy her fault, the result of her wilfully placing herself in danger?

She suspected the latter, cursing herself for her recklessness and stupidity.

In trying to play the hero, she had thrown away her only chance of motherhood, a stark fact that she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life.

This defeat was hers to own and hers alone.

For the first time in her life, Helen felt utterly rudderless.

She had not intended to fall pregnant, had not wanted to accept that she had initially, but there was no denying that she had slowly embraced the idea, a whole new future mapped out for her.

Birth, child-rearing, pre-school and more, she would have thrown herself into motherhood, blundering her way to some kind of happiness.

It had given her life a real sense of meaning, a definitive future.

In a stroke that future had been ripped away from her, the reality impossible to ignore.

She was going to have a baby, but now she was not.

A sharp knock on the door made Helen look up. A nurse, smiling a sad smile, poked her head round the door.

‘So sorry to disturb you, my love, but we’re going to need to move you. If I had my way, we’d let you stay just where you are—’

‘But you need the room,’ Helen said bleakly.

‘Something like that. Now I’ve got a change of clothes for you and some disposable underwear, I’ll just pop them here for you …’

She stepped inside the room, placing the small pile on a chair.

‘Is there anyone I can call for you? Someone who could come and pick you up?’

Unbidden, an image of Christopher flashed through her mind, but she dismissed this out of hand.

He was the last person she wanted to see right now.

Charlie then? She was the obvious choice and had been trying to contact Helen for the past two hours.

Yet, Helen hesitated, partly because she knew Charlie was under real pressure herself, and partly because Helen knew instinctively that she wouldn’t have the strength to rehearse all that had happened to her with someone else, however sympathetic and supportive her old friend might be.

For reasons Helen couldn’t fully explain she wanted to keep her grief close for now.

Which is why she now found herself saying:

‘No, you’re alright. But I could do with a cab?’

Half an hour later, Helen was back outside the refuge.

Still a few women lingered in the street, talking to reporters about the incident, but Helen ignored them, walking gingerly past in the direction of the alleyway.

All she wanted to do now was retrieve her bike, return to her flat and try and make sense of the morning’s shocking events.

But once again, she was to be denied any respite, Eloise’s voice ringing out:

‘Helen, is that you?’

Slowing, she turned to see the refuge manageress, hurrying over.

‘Dear God, Helen, are you alright?’

Helen dropped her gaze to the floor, unable to find the words.

‘I saw what happened. You could have been killed …’

Still Helen maintained her silence. She knew Eloise meant well, but every word was torture.

‘I told the police all about it. Hopefully they’ll catch the bastards. They’ve already been and gone actually … so I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do with these?’

Now, finally, Helen raised her head, the effort making her feel faint.

Eloise was holding out Viyan’s meagre possessions.

Staring at them, Helen suddenly felt overwhelmed with sadness and regret.

What on earth had happened? How had those thugs found Viyan?

Helen had one dark, nagging suspicion, but surely that was too far-fetched to be true?

Pushing these thoughts away, she accepted the passport and sketching pad, nodding briefly at the concerned manager, before heading on her way without a word.

Half an hour later, she was back in the underground car park at her apartment block, cursing once more that the lift was not working, as she shuffled towards the towering stairwell.

Her legs felt weak, her head light and it was an effort to keep going, all energy, all resolve, having deserted her.

She kept her head down, her eyes fixed ahead, but the stairs seemed to spiral ever upwards.

As hard as she worked, she never seemed to be getting any closer to her flat.

Eventually, however, she reached the familiar landing, crossing it breathlessly, before teasing open the door.

Gripping the wall, Helen propelled herself forward.

Moving slowly, she made her way through the kitchen, tossing Viyan’s passport and pad onto the table.

As she did so, the pad flipped open, revealing some sketches inside.

Surprised, Helen seated herself carefully, leafing through its contents, amazed by what she was seeing.

Viyan had clearly been busy before the fire, making copious notes regarding her time in captivity.

There were names of the main players, names of her fellow workers, but also illustrations.

Helen pored over her sketch of the farm where she’d been held, lost in the intricate details, before turning the page.

Now she stopped in her tracks. For on this page, Viyan had drawn a picture of ‘Leyla’, the overseer of the horrific prison camp, the woman who’d made her life a living Hell for over two years.

In an instant, everything fell into place, Helen’s dark suspicions all too prescient.

For this was a woman she recognized. A woman Helen had met .