Losing Evan, Discovering Emma Parts 2 And 3 free porn video

Losing Evan, Discovering Emma. Parts 2 and 3. By Tanya H. Part 2 - Surviving. Next morning I woke early with only the faintest remnants of a hangover and the notion of an early morning run along the seafront. While attempting a sleepy scratch of the belly and almost dragging out the jewel from my tummy button I remembered there wasn't in the flat any running kit to fit me. Under my distorted t-shirt I was curves and softness I hardly dared touch. Kirsty slept on, spreadeagled and snoring on her back in a bedding tangle. Her crotch was bared with her (my) cock draped on one thigh. I frowned at the memories, of what I had done - tasted. Had I really wished to suck my own cock? Clearly a genie's gratitude was measured in mischief - no wonder people were always bottling the bloody bastards up. So I brewed coffee, grilled toast and after breakfast tidied the living room; our clothes were still scattered around the floor, messing my tidy mind. Picking up and folding the man clothes I'd worn last night was okay, but it felt intrusive handling Kirsty's stuff; particularly her tights and panties. With her padded bra draped across my hands, silently contemplating that even a small breasted woman would need to wear one every day, I started when a man spoke. "You'll probably feel more comfortable wearing that." I spun around, hair flying and heat rising in my cheeks, but it was only Kirsty leaning on the doorframe with her arms folded. "What are we going to do?" The only strategy I'd had was to hope the magic would fade and leave us as we'd been. After all, I'd had my fill of my own cock, hadn't I? She shrugged and I had to turn away - it was too surreal, like finding a twin brother I'd never known. Even the female shape I was cowering inside didn't seem so weird. I made more coffee, we sat at the little kitchen table and avoided looking at each other by from the window. "What if we're stuck like this?" I said, pushing hair from my face again - without really thinking about the action. The stuff seemed to have a mind of its own. "Then we'll just have to make the best of it." She reached to take my hand, held it tight when I halfheartedly tried to pull away. I'd never through of myself having big hands, but they looked big when one was clenched around my new one. "Did you do this? Tell us the truth now. You're in my body, you owe us honesty at least." "Kirsty, I never did. How would I? Do you think I wanted to be you, like this!" "Lots of men do - perverts." "I haven't been caught wanking in your knickers! We've swapped bloody bodies!" The conversation went backwards and forwards like that for ten minutes or so before we lapsed into silence. Then she wanted a shower. I had to show her where it was and point her in the direction of all my toiletries. While the water splashed and steam wafted under the bathroom door I sat under a blanket on the sofa and tried to watch a movie. "What do you think?" a man's voice asked, making me jump again - for a moment I couldn't work out why there was a man in my flat. I fell back to reality with a thump and a wobble in my boobs. There was Kirsty, leaning on the doorframe like a model in a clothes catalogue. She looked clean and fresh, wearing one of my check shirts and clean jeans. She wore Minion socks, her hair was combed and she'd even shaved away yesterday's stubble. "You've been through my stuff!" "Course I bloody have, what else am I supposed to wear?" Which wasn't unreasonable in the circumstances, but it was just... weird. And she'd clearly made an effort to look smart, to have a shave. Had she had a big long piss standing up, pointing my cock at the loo while she made patterns with it? "Maybe you'll feel better after a shower." "I'll feel better with my body back!" But I did have a shower, and the hot water did feel good - though it was hotter, slipperier, cleaner without any body hair. Kirsty didn't have a bit below her eyebrows and that smooth, fabulously curved and supple skin felt just as good this morning. Though I was reluctant to lay hands on it at first - as though I had no real right to caress those breasts, or wash between her legs. When I went to join her in the kitchen, one towel to cover boobs and hips with another over my hair, she'd made us a pot of tea. It would have been more welcome if she hadn't spilled sugar and milk on the side without bothering to wipe it up. "You'll have to go to my flat and get yourself some stuff, while we think through what we're going to do." It sounded like she'd already decided this was the plan. "I can't go there, like this!" "Neither can I - like this. What are people going to say when some strange lad nips into my place and comes out with a bag of knickers!" "It's none of their bloody business!" "Trust us, pet - I know some of them busybodies. They'll make it their business and then we'll both be in the shit." "How can it be any shitter?" "The fat cow who lives underneath me, she's the aunt or second cousin or something of Mark Kennedy. Know him?" I shook my head. "Well, you ought to, darling because now we've swapped over you are the spitting image of Mark Kennedy's girlfriend and he's already wondering where you are. If I go home now, looking like Evan bloody Connor from Burton's Menswear, he'll find out from his aunt and then he'll go ape!" She showed me a picture on her phone - a trendy looking lad, with a chisel cut face, thick tattoo'd arms and a leer. He was leaning proudly on some bright orange hatchback he clearly adored. "He's funny, sometimes," Kirsty said, looking at the picture with narrowed eyes. "Thinks a lot himself, but not very good in bed, know what I mean- bit quick for me. Not that I've told him, faked a few I have, he'd get a right mood on otherwise. Short tempered." She rubbed her arms while her eyes stared into a spot a long way from my lounge. "It'll wear off. Stands to reason. "Stands to reason! What shite. What kind of reason has you swapping bodies with us, eh?" "Alright, I get it. But we can wait a bit and see. I am not going out like this." She ignored me, stomped sulkily to the sofa, flopped down and picked up the TV remote. Like there would be anything on there to take our minds off this mess. "You know something, don't you?" she said after ten minutes of channel hopping. "Tell us, stop being a twat." "Twat! Why would I want to be you, Kirsty Conner? Why would I want to be female?" I rose to my feet, threw my arms up and swore again at the way my chest wobbled. Anger, helplessness, dislocation surged through me so much I had to get away from her eyes, from my face and my body. I stropped my way into the bedroom, slammed the door and threw myself face down on the bed. I was surprised and disappointed to find I was crying. For awhile I lay there heavy and still, hoping for the first indication that I was going to change back. Time passed in the dim room, but nothing changed. I wondered what Kirsty would be doing, but mostly I just lay there, arm over my eyes wishing to be myself again. "It's not going to wear off," she said from the doorway. "We're stuck." Her voice sounded even and calm, like she was announcing there were no Corn Flakes. "How can we be stuck! How am I supposed to be pretend to be you?" "Well, you look like us for a start." "I don't know anything about you, apart from your boyfriend." "Our work is almost the same, different branding, same people." "You sound like you don't give a shit." She shrugged. I hated watching her animating my body so I turned to the wall. "I don't mind your body, the floppy bit's weird, though I don't see what all the fuss is about. Besides, do you good to experience life from the other side. All of you should have to live as a woman for a bit, make your eyes open that would." "I don't want to be a woman. I don't need to be a woman. I was doing okay as I was, thank you. And, for the record, I never hit a woman, never did any of the things you said last night." "Sorry about that. Raging wasn't I? I'm over it. It's not going away, you know? I just know, this is it." "It can't be it." "Look, I'm going for a walk. Won't be long." "What! What are you thinking? What if you change back? What is you meet somebody I know?" She laughed, with my laugh. "I'll just bluff it, talk some shit about football and women with big tits. Don't lock me out." She winked at me, "of me own flat." "It's not your flat!" I shouted after her, but she had gone. So I stared at the ceiling, focussed all my energy on the soggy, flabby tits puddled on my chest and willed them to go back to where they'd come from. The front door banged, lifting me from my stupor. "That was quick?" "Kirsty?" a different man demanded. "This had better not be how it looks!" I didn't recognise the voice, but it was crackling with anger and indignation. Nothing good was coming with that voice. Light flooded the room, the door was thrown open and I was half sitting, half swinging my legs down - heart racing, fear firing through my guts. A blocky, squat silhouette filled the door then took a step towards me. "Get out of here!" I snapped, almost reflexively, but that wasn't going to save me. Even as I scrambled to put the bed between us he was on me. Stars fired through my eyes, my head whipped around and pain smashed through my cheek, then my shoulder as he seized my arm and threw me to the floor. "Night out with a mate, was it! Lying bitch!" More stars, more pain. A piston into my belly drove all the air from me with a shrill squeal. Fire spread through my scalp and he lifted my by my hair. "You belong to me, understand?" Spittle spattered my skin. "I don't belong to anybody," I said, not very loud, but I meant it. Being stuck in Kirsty Connor was bad enough, but to be belted by her wanker boyfriend! "Gonna teach you some respect, slag." He pushed me onto my back, down beside the bed and straddled me, legs pinning my arms while he leered. Sight of him, sound of him, so arrogant, superior, made me growl in the back of my throat. I heaved my hips, squirmed and rolled, but he just laughed and rode my efforts like a cowboy on a bronco. Knees still trapping my arms he pushed up my t shirt and bared Kirsty's breasts, roughly pawed at them, laughed, squeezed them cruelly, slapped my face. His weight made it hard to drag in the air I needed, hurt my arms. I bucked my hips, but he just laughed some more. "Love it when you fight." When he reached for his belt buckle. When he opened his flies and pushed down his trousers I saw what he'd got in mind for me. For all that my skin was burning, that my lungs were desperately heaving for oxygen, a bucket of ice sluiced over me. "No you don't." "Yes I do," he growled, face twisted as he relentlessly pushed my thighs wide apart. "I do not consent to this!" "Shit on your consent!" "I do not consent to this," I yelled with every decibel I had. Shelly and Nigel downstairs were good neighbours and would always gently point out if I'd ever been heavy footed or over loud with my tunes and this I wanted them to hear. "He's raping me!" I screamed - shrill and piercing. "Shut up now!" His cock was out, jutting and hard. His knees wedged my thighs apart. Now he'd finished with his trousers and his hands were free I saw him ball a fist and draw it back behind his head. I turned away, but there was nowhere to go. Something snapped and I screamed. Another punch and all went dark. Part 3 - Lying. I came too laid on my back, shaking and rolling slightly. There was something over my mouth, straps pressing chest and legs. A diesel engine revved, air hissed over my very dry lips. My body felt dull and heavy, my head too light - like it might drift away. Blurs surrounded me though I willed my eyes to look for a threat. "She's waking up," said a woman - talking about somebody else. Kirsty? What had happened "Hello, pet. Can you hear me?" Somebody squeezed my hand. "Can you feel that, darling?" I nodded. "What's your name, pet?" With dry lips, my mouth fuzzy and foul I croaked, "Evan." "He's not here, love. You can see him later. Okay?" Realisation came back like another punch at around about the same moment I blinked some sense into my vision. I was in the back of an ambulance. A green suited, grey haired paramedic leant over me while a bored looking cop, with her hair struggling loose from a mousy knot, sat close by. "Can you tell me your name, pet?" The paramedic smiled encouragement. I couldn't swallow, everything too dry - except my eyes which brimmed and overflowed down my cheeks. "Kirsty," I whispered and the great lie began. Pain came in waves and thumps each time the ambulance jolted over the road. I couldn't open my left eye properly, my lips felt bloated, tits ached and arms were sore, but the worst part was the dull throbbing hurt right at the top of my thighs and even worse than that, inside. Poor Kirsty, I thought. How many times had this already happened to her? I cried a bit for her, then as I fully got my thoughts in order and considered just what had happened to me, I cried for me too. A detective named Deb was allocated to look after me. Deb stayed with me while a smiling, chatty Doctor took samples from my body - under my fingernails, where I'd scraped Mark, from my cheek where he'd licked me, from my thighs where he'd ejaculated. Dirty bastard. They photographed my injuries: fractured left cheekbone, bruising around both eyes and left cheek, fingermarks on both breasts, hand marks and knee prints on both arms, bruising to the vulva. They weren't able to photograph the internal bruising, apparently he hadn't been in there that long. Nigel had hit him over the back of the head, with a beer bottle, before pulling him out and away from me. Then held him down until the coppers came and locked him up. It was too much to get my head around. First, I was a woman. How was I supposed to get that locked into place? I didn't have a problem with men who want to be women; I'd worked with one at Next before I moved to Burtons. She was okay, pleasant company and not unattractive in a gruff kind of way, but that wasn't for me. Whatever witchcraft had flowed to swap me and Kirsty over should have swapped us back after its bit of fun. Second I was a woman who had been raped. That was easier to deal with, strange as it sounds. After all, it wasn't my body that had been hurt - it was Kirsty's. I armoured myself in that denial. "I don't remember." I had to say that a lot. I don't think the cops believed me. "What were you doing in Evan's flat?" "I don't remember." "Did you have sex with Evan?" "I don't remember." "Is this the skirt you were wearing? "I don't remember." During another police interview I said "I don't remember," to most of the questions. When I started crying they left me alone. I cried a lot; the whole process was draining. The cops did their best; though their frustration at my "memory" was clear. I couldn't help but feel utterly removed from the whole process. At one point I wanted to scream, "he didn't rape me, he raped Kirsty Connor, go ask her your questions!" That wouldn't have ended well, would it? "It was Evan who told Kennedy you were in Evan's flat. Why do you think he did that?" "Ask him, I don't know!" That revelation hit me hard - that Kirsty had set her bastard of a boyfriend on me. For what? To get my life, that's why. Bastard. He/she got locked up as well - aiding and abetting the rape, though he was released without charge after a couple of days. I refused to see him/her/it. As shit as the whole body swap thing was, surely we could have sorted it out without bringing the police and a serious sexual offence into the mix. And there were other people to be hurt by the whole thing too. "Kirsty, love. I'm your mam." "I don't remember." You could see the pain in her eyes at that, but what else could I say? She was a withered thing, with only a few teeth and eyes so hooded and lost in wrinkles they could have been falling back into a well of sadness. Kirsty had a sister too - similar facial structure, but brown haired and brown eyed; overweight and bitter. As well as family I didn't remember my birthday, where I lived or anything that could link me to the few concerned and outraged relatives who made their way to my bedside. Such visits were uncomfortable for all parties and after the first day only the woman who said she was my mam came back. My time in hospital could be summarised in, "I don't remember," and staring at the wall. After four days there it was established that I didn't have a fractured skull or any serious injuries and I was discharged into Deb's care. The woman calling herself mam thought I should go home with her. As it had never been my home, she'd never been my Mam and I felt closer to Deb I refused as gently as I could. With nowhere else to go Deb drove me to an uninspiring side of town where a shabby collection of flats beside a disused railway line overlooked spoil heaps from a disused mine. Through dim communal areas and musty stairs I recognised Kirsty's second floor flat from the word, "slag" scratched into the front door's paint. "Jesus!" Deb muttered while I fumbled with the door keys. Inside, the flat was humming. The brownish carpet in the hallway was heaped with jackets and mismatched shoes, the magnolia paint almost lost under grubby smears. The kitchen was a mess of dirty pots laced with dried, congealed food while its lino floor was sticky and flies busied themselves at the window. It didn't look like the lounge curtains had been opened for a good six months, ashtrays spilled onto the coffee table that was marked with cigarette burns and coffee rings; a used condom wilted on the floor beside the sofa. For a woman who had been so picky about her appearance Kirsty's bedroom was a tip. Balled up underwear, tights and socks were strewn across the floor and discarded clothes heaped every surface. The sheet would have defied the best efforts of the most determined washing powder scientists and it looked like Kirsty had long given up on a cover for her duvet. The only tidy part in the bedroom was the dressing table. Loads of make up and jewellery was nicely arranged and set out there. Inside her wardrobe was tidy too, though from the clothes on the floor she must have worn something once then thrown it aside. After everything I'd been hit with in the last few days this chaos, dirt, smell and disarray got me hardest. With memories of my own tidy flat, clean, organised and fresh, slapping me one after the other I fell back against the bedroom wall, my knees went soft and I slid down to the floor, eyes tight shut. I didn't even try to stop myself crying. "Grab some clean clothes, love," Deb suggested, her hand resting on my heaving shoulder. "We'll find somewhere else for the night." "Clean clothes," I sniffed. "Where?" "It's your flat, pet. Maybe I should take you to your mam's." But it wasn't my flat and she wasn't my mam. My Mam was dead, Dad had run off with a Thai girl half his age to keep a Bangkok noodle shop and I had nothing left; absolutely nothing. My body, my whole life had been claimed by another. When I looked up, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand and wincing from the swelling, Deb's expression said it all as she gingerly hunted clean knickers in a shabby drawer. "Not very good is it?" I sniffled. "Aye, but I've seen worse." Maybe she had, but it was no consolation. And nothing I could say to her would convince her that none of this shithole was my fault. "I'm going to do better. I can do better than this." She straightened the duvet over the grim sheet, sat and crossed her legs. She patted the space beside her and for want of anything better to do I joined her there. "I'm forty-two, Kirsty. I've been married twice and I've got a grown up lad who teaches PE at a special-needs college in Berwick so I've plenty of experience of men. Do you mind if I'm blunt?" I shook my head. It was starting to pound, the last lot of painkillers was wearing off. "None of the men I've been with since I was old enough to realise how good sex was have ever put anything inside me I didn't ask them to. Nice lads, all of them." She waved a hand at the shitty bedroom - my shitty bedroom as far as she was concerned. "What kind of lads are going to be attracted to this?" "Shits." "Bingo! Well done, lass. DC Carter's Lifeskills Lesson Number One; behave like shit and you'll attract flies." She patted my thigh. "Canny, don't you think?" "Did you just make that up?" She snorted. "Rule Number One of being a copper - always think on your feet." "Have you had anything to do with..." It was hard to say my name in the context of another. "Evan?" "Can I be honest, pet? What a piece of shit. Don't know what you saw in him. You know what, I probably shouldn't say this, but you need some space to get yourself back together. That bastard Evan, excuse my French, you don't need him." She patted my knee again. "Shits. Both of them. God only knows what he was thinking off; called Kennedy and told him where you were, then slinked off to the McDonalds and waited until he heard the sirens. Bastard." She gave me a sideways look. "You don't really need to hear this, do you, pet?" "What difference does it make, it's done now." I knew why Kirsty had called her boyfriend though. Who wouldn't have grabbed a chance to leave this shit life behind and take over my world? Maybe the genie had been working for her all along. I wouldn't be helping out any of them out in the future! Deb watched as I stood up. There was such a pounding behind my left eye I could hardly bear to keep it open, but I gritted my teeth, bent down and grabbed all the dirty clothing within reach. There was a bin bag poking out from under the bed, empty of course. I pushed the collection of socks, pants and tights I was clutching inside, even though I nearly fainted when I straightened again. "What are you doing?" Deb asked. "Tidying up." "Really!" "You said it - no more flies." That made her laugh. Deb watched a moment more, then she gave me a hand. Operation Clean Up The Disgusting Flat wasn't helped next morning by a great thumping and banging at the front door. I almost squealed with the suddenness and fury of it. Tremors ran through the flat and settled in my hands. As I crept down the hallway a woman's voice demanded that I'd better open the door and come out because I was the slag what had got her Mark on remand. That would be his Aunt, I guessed. Perhaps I should have phoned the coppers. I stood in the hallway and whimpered for a few seconds, my swollen cheeks and jaw throbbed in sympathy with the door, but then an strange calm settled on me. I sniffed, wiped at my bruised eyes and took a deep breath. So, I opened the door and I stood there with my hands by my side and let her see the mess of purple and blue that was Kirsty's pretty face. I showed her the chipped incisor and the blood that had leaked into the white of my right eye. "Do you want to hit us as well?" I asked and my voice only trembled a little, though my legs shook visibly and I was close to wetting myself. The brufen I'd taken a couple of hours ago was starting to wear off. My misery was almost complete. I'm sure that if Mark Kennedy's aunt had hit me I would have gone tumbling down the hallway and out through the living room window, for she was a vast woman made up of blubbery layers that rolled down from the chins and jowls and heaviness of her face. Her hair was gleaming blonde and immaculate, her make up pristine and much gold swung from many piercings in her ears. She wore an acreage of clean, pink vest top and bulged white leggings with slip on sandals. "Shit!" It seemed like she deflated in front of me. Then squared herself a little and got into her part. "You shouldn't have been there." "I don't remember why I was." A finger like a bread roll was jabbed at me. "I don't believe that shit." "It's all I've got. Do you want to come in?" "Piss off." "Are we're done then?" "We're done when I say we're done!" "Then what do you want from me?" That question seemed to fox her. She scratched one of her huge breasts, making it quiver. "He's on remand and it's your fault." I folded my arms, found her eyes and held them. "He beat us unconscious and then he raped us." She may have been ready to throw something back at me, a denial, a counter accusation - I consented, I lead him on - some bollocks, but I think she knew her nephew better than that. With a pursing of her thick lips and a bovine frown she shook her head, just turned around and puffed her way down the stairs without another word. I sagged against the door frame like a broken doll. When I got back from the launderette the next day the accusation in my door had been painted over. You could still read the word where it had been scored and the paint wasn't the right shade, but nothing around me matched anyway. That same day the postman delivered a parcel. He arrived just as I was lugging another load of clean washing up to Kirsty's flat. That was my fitness regime then - dirty washing to the launderette, clean laundry back up two floors and home. I had a big sort out, keeping only plain trousers and tops - any skirts or dresses, anything with spangles, glitter, flowers, tassels or PVC went to the charity shops in the precinct. All tights, stockings, tacky underwear, stained underwear, any panties with an excess off lace or flowers and all bras with padding went in the bin. As a protest I did try going braless, but the only person who suffered was me so I reluctantly knelt to the bra's power. The Cats Protection League shop got enough high heels to keep their shelves filled for months to come, unless a bus load of financially astute Essex girls rolled up. I kept only flat, plain shoes. All her make up and hair shite went in the bin along with any earrings - including the hoops from both nipples and the one in my labia. All other jewellery, and there was a bag full, went to a pawn shop where I got a tenner for the lot. Says a lot for her taste. As well as clearing Kirsty Connor's flat I adapted her life as best I could. All her nails got severely trimmed when I finally found a pair of nail clippers in the bathroom detritus - I hated the way they clicked like talons on everything I tried to touch. On finding nail polish remover under the sink I stripped away the colour from finger and toe nails. It made my hands look even smaller. I came very close to hacking off her hair too, I'm still not quite sure why I stopped myself as, at the time, I found the whole bloody-minded mass of it intensely frustrating. I think it was mainly down to how it would have made me look - I felt enough of a victim without going for the kind of raped and abused hairstyle I would have created with the kitchen scissors. Besides, they were blunt and greasily congealed anyway. Besides which my hair shortened itself over the first few days when her regime of vigorous straitening faded from its memory - I was left with a bushy tangle of blond curls around my face and shoulders that was good at partially hiding my face. If I could have found some means of erasing her tattoos from my skin I would have. At least by wearing the bland clothes I kept from the charity shops nobody but me was ever going to see them. Anyway, back to that parcel. It wasn't a big one, but I had to sign for it - with a scribble that might one day become a recognised signature. It was from Evan, or the real Kirsty. I didn't even know how to refer to him/her/it - "The bastard" might do. Inside was a small, plain notebook. On the first page was written a single word - sorry. Like that would cut it. On subsequent pages That Person had written bank codes, pin numbers, mobile phone unlock codes, internet passwords and other good stuff to unlock Kirsty's life. I didn't want any of it. I'd already taken her sim card from her pink, glittery i-phone before pawning the device and had located enough ID documentation to convince the bank who I was. Anything she was involved with on the internet, I just ignored. I had already shut down all my own social media accounts using a public computer in the library. Finding thirty pounds in her bank account, and with five days before the next pay day (I was signed off sick for two weeks) I shopped carefully. It may have been some time since the flat last smelt of cooking rather than takeaways, but it was good to cook again even it was very basic - no utensils, no basic ingredients and no money to get them. Though I didn't go hungry. Oh, almost forgot. Being all messed up in hospital I missed the lottery draw. Remember that wish? Out of my three wishes two had gone to ratshit, which made me worry for Lola and that arsehole of a genie actually making it worse for her, not better. One afternoon Kirsty's mam came around. She brought photo albums and showed me what Kirsty was like when she was a girl, but I couldn't remember. She patted the back of my hand and told me it would all come back and tried to be cheerful. As much as I wished she'd stop coming around I couldn't tell her where those memories where actually stored; her opinion of Evan was even worse than mine. Deb hardly recognised the flat when she came around about a week later. My face was still tender, the bruises were all but gone and much of the swelling had faded. I was stuck with a crooked nose and a shoer scar along my jawline, but in the scheme of things it could have been worse. It was a sunny day, I had the windows open and the air was cool and fresh with an edge of the sea. I sat her down and went to boil the kettle, but she followed me into the kitchen, nodding her approval. "I never thought you had it in you, love," she said, running a finger tip along one of my kitchen surfaces. They were still marked by burns and stains, like all my furniture, but it was clean and smelt of nothing more than the coffee I was making. I shrugged, but inside I was pleased. She was about the only visitor I'd had for a couple of days. Even Kirsty's Mam hadn't been. I'd passed the time reading - Kirsty Connor had finally joined the library - cleaning, and watching movies (also from the library). Emotionally I was building up to returning to work. "He's been charged," Deb said, when the pleasantries were over. "Best of all he coughed it." "Coughed it?" "Admitted it. The rape." We didn't pussy foot around that word. I'd asked her not to. He'd raped a woman, me. Why try and call it anything else, or make a euphemism of it? I was surprised, genuinely. "He'll go to prison?" "Definitely. But his brief has given him good advice. Your injuries, the way it's affected your memory." She gestured towards my clean flat. "You changed your personality and the fact he was caught in the act by the neighbour mean even a shit-hot barrister would struggle to convince a jury he didn't do it. This way, with an early guilty plea, a good barrister, a jury not getting to see the pictures of your face - two years, three max, and then out much earlier." I sat quiet for a minute or two, watching the sky through the open window and thought about all the ways that was shit. "You won't have give evidence," said Deb. Like she knew what I was thinking. "He'll be on a register. Everywhere he goes, he'll be a rapist." "And everywhere I go around here, I'll be the one he raped," I said to the clouds. I didn't want to see Deb's face just then; I was sick of crying. That's when I knew I was going to have leave, go a long way away, find some distant town where I could dump my baggage and just try to make something for myself.