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it’s not as if exercise is the only thing I can think about, especially after this morning’s incident. I just need to clear my head. They kept calling it ‘an incident’ in the station. There was an ‘incident report’, and it makes it sound less threatening if I think of it that way. I just need to run it out of my thoughts. I don’t want to go home and sit around and dwell on what could have been.
    I was in the station for a couple of hours. It was quiet, not frenetic the way it is on the television. I didn’t see gruesome pictures hanging on the walls of dismembered prostitutes. A couple of people came and went, I had another cup of coffee, eventually, and the policemen seemed to crack a lot of jokes, appearing to enjoy their crime fighting.
    It took an hour for the medical. It was all conducted in a small green room with a neon strip light, behind a battered white screen on wheels, on a tired old hospital bed that looked like it was playing host to the biggest germ party ever thrown. I was rigid with discomfort for the entire examination, afraid that I’d catch something itchy from the foam in the bed, embarrassed at the skin crêpes around my stomach when they made me lift up my top. And then, ofcourse, I kept crying. They said it was shock – a young policewoman with stern hair and thick eyebrows held my hand a couple of times and called me brave, which made me cry even more. I’m not great with compliments, any kind. My hand would involuntarily dart up to shield my eyes, as the tears started to swell anew, but she kept yanking it down, to test my blood pressure, or witness my shame – I’m not sure which.
    The result of one dirty fist to my head, and one badminton-trainer kick to my stomach is nothing more than some nasty bruising. I was surprised. I felt sure something must have been broken or ruptured, a vein popped or a bone cracked. At the time of being kicked, being punched, the pain had been obscene. It wasn’t just the force of the blows, it was the shock.
    I tried my best not to forget anything. I told them about the smell in the alleyway, which seems to have smeared itself permanently on my skin like Satan’s own brand of moisturiser, but I don’t think they wrote that down. They said that the assault charges against me will actually be vital in prosecuting the Stranger, as ‘kidnapping’ for such a short period of time could be hard to prove. It seems so odd to me that the man’s intention was clear – to take the child – and yet now they have to prove it to people that weren’t even there, and the events of the morning will be painted differently by his lawyer in court. He may be able to plead temporary insanity or something similar. I told them that I thought he was scared by himself, not insane, but they didn’t write that down either. The policeman said they’d be in contact, with the details of what happens next. There is, of course, the prospect of a trial, as well as some kind of trauma counselling that I can go for, as the victim of a violent crime. When they said this I explained that he hadn’t used a gun, and they looked at me strangely again. They gave me their phone number and said I couldcall them if I remembered anything else, and that the counsellor would be in touch shortly, so I said fair enough, as nonchalantly as I could muster.
    I didn’t tell them that I already have a therapist. It feels indulgent. I started seeing him about eight months ago, when I first realised that I might need to talk as well as run. I like to discuss abstract theories, and he likes to make me find some relevance to them in my life. Given a heavier case load, I don’t think he’d still be seeing me, but I pay my money and he listens. I find it interesting, although I’ve learnt that he doesn’t deal in answers. He doesn’t think we are talking about the right things. He thinks I am avoiding my own issues, that I need to focus on the real. He nudges me in the same direction every