In truth she had been tempted to tell John about her plan, but at the last minute Jen had hesitated. Not because she didn’t trust him – she trusted him with her life – but because she didn’t want him to feel like he had to come. Before the attack she had been fairly confident he would come of his own volition, but afterwards there was a nagging doubt that he would feel an obligation to act as her protector rather than her friend, and she didn’t want to be responsible for that. So she left. Alone and in the dead of night, with only a small rucksack of belongings.
She’d dreamed of being free for so long, yet now it was happening she felt apprehensive. How would she survive once her meagre savings had been used up? What would she do? Where would she live? But, frightened as she was, the overriding emotion she felt as she slipped out of the front door and heard it softly click behind her was relief. Sure, she would miss her mother, but to save herself – her body and her mind – she had to get as far away from that place as possible.
Because there was one thing that nobody knew but Jen, and it was a secret so terrible that she feared she’d have to take it to her grave. The day that John had found her lying face down in the mud she had indeed been attacked, but not, as he thought and she had subsequently let him believe, by a stranger. The attack had been the culmination of years of abuse. That day, on a bed of autumn leaves and within earshot of her childhood best friend, she had been raped by her own father.