The police station is a bleak place. Of course, they don’t try to make it one but that’s the result anyhow.

There’s a window in the far corner that lets in a small stream of sunshine, but not enough to give the place a light feel. Someone has placed a vase of flowers on the sill but, instead of helping to brighten up the place, the petals droop with misery, confirming my mood.

I am miserable here.

Mum sits next to me on a rickety thing of a chair that seems too small. Her appearance is dishevelled: there are dark circles under her eyes where the tiredness has peaked through and where her mascara has run; her makeup has turned cakey from all the crying, her wrinkles now more pronounced. She looks ten years older now, and I’m sure she feels it.

It’s been an hour sitting in this place, watching as the police officers walk by, some seeming to drag themselves down the corridors for the sake of it, to relieve them of their mind-numbing chores. I’d never thought a policing job would be this boring and accumulate this much paperwork. I thought it would be all fun and flash, with guns pointing at every corner.

But life isn’t like the films, I suppose.
My mother didn’t beat Andre to the floor with a roundhouse kick, as much as she would have liked to.

We get called through by a policewoman who looks in the same state as Mum. I catch a coffee stain on the woman’s shirt, a trail of brown contrasting against her crisp, white blouse. She seems indifferent to it.
We’re led to a small boxed-in room for questioning; the woman’s colleague joins us a few minutes later—a young man of about thirty. Mum writes down the statement and they ask her the same questions again in a bored voice that tries to show a little bit of sympathy but not much.

Mum recounts what happens over and over; her story doesn’t change. It’s almost as though they want her to slip up. As though she was the victim.

“I knew he’d do something like that,” she says, turning to me. “He’s asked me out before and I’ve always said no. It’s like he’s obsessed with me or something.”

Before I can reply, the policeman starts the grilling.

“And what was your attire on the day?” one of the policemen asks.

My mum frowns. “Why would that matter?”

He glances over to his female colleague for help, but she offers none. Realising he’s in this alone, he turns back to my mother.

“Your clothing didn’t provoke your attacker?”

Mum looks incredulous. It’s the first sign of emotion from her all day since she burst into tears at the salon.

“You’re saying the way I dress is an excuse for rape?” she snaps at him. Then she gestures to her work clothes. “You think this caused the fucking crime that I was a victim of?”

“We urge you not to use that language against us, Ma’am,” replies the man.

“No!” my Mum’s voice is raised. “You excuse what comes out of your mouth. To assume that this was my fault—” she stops, shaking her head in disbelief as though she’s too angry to carry on.

“She’s right,” the policewoman says, turning to her male colleague. “You can’t possibly ask her that. She’s a rape victim and she is not to blame, nor is her clothing.”

“Thank you,” snarls Mum. “At least some people have common sense around here, and it’s no wonder it didn’t come from a man.”

The policeman, who is bright pink by now, seems to stutter as he opens his mouth. He only manages to say, “My sincere apologies. The name of your… predator has been noted and he will be dismissed from his post if possible.”

“If possible?” I half-whisper.

Then Mum follows it with a bellowing, “If possible?”

“It’s a tricky business,” says the woman police officer. “But we will make every effort to ensure it is done.” She nods to my mother. “And I would also recommend you resign.”

“To hell I am!” Mum’s eyes seem to bulge out of her sockets. “He’s the one that’s going and him only. Don’t make me suffer for his mess.”

“It was only a suggestion,” the man jumps in.

“The memories,” says the woman softly, ignoring her colleague, “may be too much for you to bear—they often are for people in your position. And I”—she swallows, glancing at the table—“am truly sorry for what happened to you, Mrs Dixon, but it will save your mental health if you disassociate yourself as far away from that place as possible.”

My Mum pauses, contemplating her words.

“Okay,” she says, softer this time. “I’ll consider it.”

The man nods. “You are dismissed.”

Mum offers him one more glare and thanks the woman before scraping back her chair and striding out of the room. I follow suit.

We pass through the dingy corridor once more and out into the bleak lobby. As I hurry to catch up with my mother who’s striding through the double doors to the exit, I catch sight of young dark skin, black kind eyes, and a pink lips that I swear I could have kissed.