Page 56

a line in the sand

ELLIE

R ain taps a slow rhythm against the kitchen window, soft and steady like a warning.

The sky’s that dull grey that settles low and heavy, pressing against the rooftops.

Inside, the toaster clicks, the kettle hums, and Mia’s voice cuts through the quiet like it always does.

Sharp, dramatic, and too awake for a Monday morning.

“I swear my maths teacher has it out for me. Three pop quizzes in one week? That’s not education, that’s psychological warfare.”

I slide a breakfast bar into her rucksack, zip it shut, and hand her a waterproof jacket. “Please wear it, they serve a purpose, Mia.”

“I make no promises.”

A car horn bleats outside. I cross to the window and nudge the curtain aside with the back of my hand. Callum’s car idles at the curb, wipers sweeping in lazy arcs.

He came.

I’d called him over the weekend, just to ask if he could help now and then, maybe take Mia to school once or twice. I wasn’t expecting much. A vague excuse, maybe. But he hadn’t hesitated. No drama, no edge. Just “ Yeah, of course.”

And now here he is. On time, no less. There’s a first for everything.

We’ve come a long way since we were teenagers, mostly in separate directions. Even so, it’s something.

“You sure you’ve got everything?”

“Lunch, P.E kit, looming sense of academic doom. Yep.”

I open the door, and the chill hits. Cold, damp, and tinged with the smell of wet tarmac and leaf mulch. I press a kiss to her cheek, pulling her close for just a moment. “Be good.”

She rolls her eyes but gives me a quick squeeze. “You too, weirdo.”

I watch her jog down the path and climb into the car without looking back. One last wave, and then they’re gone, swallowed by mist and rain.

The door clicks shut behind me, and then silence settles around the flat.

I drift through the kitchen, mug in hand. I keep finding myself in mindless motion, like if I keep walking between the sofa, the sink and the hallway mirror, I won’t have to face the truth sitting at the bottom of my gut.

My wrist still aches beneath the sleeve of my jumper. The bruise has bloomed into something dark and sickening. I took a photo of it that night. Two, actually.

I don’t know why I did it. But in some ways, I do. Because somewhere deep down—beneath the doubts—something is shifting. And I’m tired of waiting for him to twist things until they sound like my fault.

I turn away from the window, my mind already made up. I’m not going to file a complaint or press charges. Not yet. But I want to know where I stand.

I grab my car keys from the bowl by the door, shrug on my jacket, and move before I can change my mind. The flat feels too small, like the walls are pressing in, urging me out. I lock the door behind me with shaking hands, the cold metal biting into my palm, and make my way to the car.

The station sits at the end of a long, narrow stretch near the town centre, hunched between a solicitor’s office and a row of council buildings. Rain comes down in thick sheets, blurring the world outside into smudges of grey and shadow.

I sit in the car longer than I mean to. Engine off. Doors locked. The heater hums against the cold, but it doesn’t take the edge off. Rain drums hard against the windscreen, loud and relentless, distorting the building ahead until it looks like it’s sinking underwater.

I’ve made it this far. Dressed. Parked. Present. But still, my hands won’t let go of the steering wheel. Fingers clenched, knuckles white, like letting go might unravel everything I’ve held together.

What if I’m making this bigger than it was?

What if they think I’m wasting their time?

I swallow hard, shake my head, and force myself to move. One hand unclenches. Then the other. I gather my bag, phone already tucked into the outer pocket, with the photos queued and ready.

Inside, the waiting area is harsh and sterile.

The receptionist doesn’t glance up as I approach, her eyes fixed on the glowing screen in front of her.

Her fingers tap the keyboard in a slow, mechanical rhythm, like she’s been doing it for hours.

Across the room, someone flips through a battered magazine, pages turning with a sound too loud for the quiet.

But all I can hear is the steady tick, tick, tick of the wall-mounted clock behind the desk, and beneath it, my heart pounding in my ears.

The receptionist is polite. She doesn’t ask questions. Just takes my name and tells me to wait.

So, I do.

Until a uniformed officer appears from the hallway and calls my name.

I stand and follow her down a narrow corridor that smells faintly of disinfectant.

The carpet is thin and worn, the lights above flickering just enough to make my eyes ache.

She leads me into a small interview room.

Beige walls, no windows, and a table that looks like it was dragged in from a storage closet.

In the centre sits a lone box of tissues, perfectly placed, like an afterthought dressed up as comfort.

The officer closes the door behind me with a soft click and gestures to a chair. She looks as though she’s in her late thirties, her blonde hair pulled back into a clean, no-nonsense ponytail, uniform pressed. There’s something composed about her. Practiced, but not cold.

“Thanks for coming in,” she says, sliding into the seat opposite me. Her tone is clipped, but not unfriendly. She pulls a notepad from a leather folder and clicks a pen into readiness. “My name’s Officer Palmer. I understand you’d like to speak to someone about an incident?”

“Yes.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

She nods, not impatiently, just waiting. I fumble with the strap of my bag, then dig out my phone and set it on the table.

“I’m not here to file a complaint,” I blurt. “Not… formally. I don’t want to press charges. I just…” I glance down at my hands, then force myself to meet her gaze. “I need to know what my options are. What I’m allowed to do.”

Palmer watches me for a moment, then gives a slow nod. “Alright. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

So, I do.

Quietly. Carefully. Every detail I can manage.

I tell her about the messages. About him showing up uninvited. The way he pushed into the flat. How he grabbed me. I tell her Mia was there. That she saw the aftermath. That I told her it was nothing because I didn’t know what else to say.

But once the words start, they don’t stop.

I tell her about the other things. The parts that don’t leave bruises.

How he used to gaslight me so I’d end up apologising for things I hadn’t done.

How he’d disappear for nights on end, only to come back with excuses that didn’t quite add up.

But if I questioned them, I was the paranoid one.

How he’d build me up in front of others, only to tear me down behind closed doors.

“It’s always been words. Quiet manipulation I thought I was imagining. He made me believe I was imagining it, anyway. That I was paranoid. But… he’s never…” I add. “It’s the first time he’s ever put his hands on me.”

Palmer doesn’t interrupt. She just listens. Occasionally writes something down. But mostly, she just holds the space.

When I’m done, there’s a long silence.

She leans back, fingers still curled around her pen. “I’m really sorry you went through that.”

I blink, throat tight. I wasn’t expecting kindness. Not like that.

“But just so you’re aware.” Her tone shifts, softer, but laced with the weight of policy. “Under current legislation, harassment is only a criminal offence if it’s repeated behaviour. Two or more incidents. And unless a formal threat was made, or there’s ongoing contact.”

My chest tightens. “So, because this was the first time he?—”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t matter,” she cuts in, lifting a hand. “It does. But in the eyes of the law, we’re limited in how we define certain types of abuse. Especially when it’s emotional or psychological.”

She taps her pen against her notepad. “Even with the bruising… it’s not that we don’t take it seriously. It’s that one incident doesn’t meet the threshold for criminal harassment.”

My pulse spikes. “You’re telling me nothing can be done unless he comes back and does it again?”

Palmer’s expression tightens, just slightly. The professional mask flickers. “I understand how frustrating that sounds.”

“No,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “You don’t. I came here because I was scared. Because I thought speaking out was the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have to bleed for it to count.”

A silence stretches between us.

I drop my eyes, staring at the edge of Palmer’s notepad. There’s a smudge of blue ink near the corner where her thumb must’ve rubbed against the paper. It’s small. Unremarkable. But I can’t stop looking at it. Something about the messiness of it grounds me.

Palmer exhales. Then, she puts the pen down beside the smudge.

“You’re right,” she says, quieter now. “The system isn’t always good at recognising control. Or fear. Not until it escalates. We should be better. But we work within the definitions we’ve been given.”

Something inside me sinks.

Palmer leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “But you are not powerless, Ellie. There are things we can do. Things that build a record. That give you something to stand on if it ever happens again.”

I meet her eyes. There’s something different there now. Not pity. Not distance.

Just honesty.

“What can I do?” I ask, my voice tight but steady.

“You can file a report,” she says. “It won’t launch an investigation, and he won’t be notified at this stage. But it creates a paper trail. If he contacts you again, or if he turns up, we’ll already have context. You won’t be starting from zero.”

She picks up her pen again, but her voice stays gentle. “It’s not always about what we can do today. Sometimes, it’s about what we’ll have in place tomorrow.”

The words land hard in my chest. Real. Solid. Like a rope I didn’t know I needed to hold on to.