Clearly she'd been cut, but not by a surgeon. There was a jagged mark beneath her collarbone. There was a crescent shaped scar that I somehow knew was...from a broken bottle. Bar room brawl or sadistic lover, the scar had a story all it's own, I was sure. I wasn't sure if it was better than the story that accompanied the bruises on her wrists. It looked as if she was just recovering from a nasty rope burn. There was another variety of burn on her shoulder-blade. As she'd slid out of her coat,. But she had barely said “Hi there, Freddy! How’re you?” when she realised that almost anything she’d prepared to say would be wholly inappropriate. Freddy was there. And his bedroom was exactly as Fatima remembered it. Tatty posters advertising club nights that had ceased to exist years ago. A stack of clothes piled high on an armchair. A small TV and a much larger stereo. And a single bed taking centre-stage. And on that bed was Freddy. Unmistakably him. His lean thin face. The ragged hair.. More

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