.

      I did the odd bit of freelance work. One client in particular was incredibly tardy with paying my invoice. Every time I asked for my money there was another excuse, quickly followed by a dinner invitation. I didn’t want to have dinner with him, but I seldom turned down a drink. So we had a few drinks. He was a fat, friendly, funny guy. But something was off. He looked like a teddy bear, but every now and again there would be a story that didn’t sit right. He once told me how he’d met a prominent actor who he had a lot of dark secrets he couldn’t possibly repeat. But I knew the actor and his past was about as dark as a fluorescent light bulb. Fatman didn’t know I knew him. Fatman liked telling stories in which he was the hero. But after six beers, who cares? Each time we met, either he had forgotten my cheque – yes, in those days we were still paid via cheque – or he was going to do a direct deposit. He always had a reason for us to see each other again. But this time he had it in hand, or so he said.

      In hindsight, what I did next was stupid. I didn’t want to spend time alone with him any more. My mild ill ease with him had grown and I’d already decided I wasn’t going to see him again, cheque or no cheque. So I invited him to a drinks party at my flat. There would be at least 10 people there; I wouldn’t have to spend much one-on-one time with him and he’d pay me and go. That would be the end of it. Yes, he would know where I lived, but I wouldn’t invite him around again, and I lived in a secure complex anyway.

      When I asked him if he’d like to join the party he jumped at the invitation. But he didn’t arrive. There were drinks, obviously; there was food, luckily; and there was great company. And secretly I was pleased that he hadn’t turned up. I wrote the money off. It had been months of waiting and it wasn’t worth it any more. I also had a growing suspicion he had been holding out on purpose, keen for a drinking partner with breasts.

      We drank a lot that night, as usual. And one by one my friends peeled off home and I decided to have an emergency lie-down on the couch and a cup of black coffee. An emergency lie-down and a cup of black coffee often warded off that unpleasant session on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl. I don’t know how long I’d been prostrate on the couch when I heard knocking on the front door. I guessed it was probably about an hour after everyone had left because my coffee was ice cold. I struggled to my feet and somehow managed to reach the door. And, without asking who was there, I opened it.

      The complex in which I lived was populated with young professionals. All the units were the same, differing by a few square metres at most. One-bedroom/one-bathroom apartments, perfect for people who worked hard and played hard and really just wanted somewhere to sleep and occasionally hold a braai. We all knew each other and it wasn’t uncommon for us to wander in and out of each other’s places. Most of us never locked the doors when we were home. I loved it there; I never had any fear of who might pop in or of when. That night was the last time I ever felt that way. Fatman stood in the doorway. He was swaying slightly. It’s amazing what you remember when you do recall a drunken evening. It’s like a series of unplanned Instagram filters, some of it in sharp relief in which you capture every detail; some of it in soft focus, maybe clear in the middle and blurred around the edges. Lo-fi vs Brannen.

      I stood and looked at him. This was all wrong. The party was over ages ago – what was he doing here? How had he got through the gate without calling me?

      “You’re late,” I said stupidly.

      “Better late than never,” he muttered, pushing his way past me into my home.

      “Everyone’s left, so there’s really no point in you coming in,” I said, feeling distinctly uneasy.

      “But I brought your money,” he said, shoving an envelope into my hand. “And you invited me for drinks.”

      If you’re a vampire folklore follower – which is a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine – you might have read the urban legend that says a vampire can only enter your home if you invite it in. Until then, you are safe. But once you’ve let it in, it can stay as long as it likes. Sometimes a vampire will trick you into letting it in. I thought this at the time. He tricked me. But I did invite him in.

      And then he was pushing me up against the wall and trying to kiss me and I was frozen. I didn’t cry out and I didn’t scream. I kept thinking, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. And if it is, then what have I done to provoke it? And that little sober voice in my head kept saying, “You let him in, Sam. You let him in.”

      We ended up in the bedroom. I don’t know how long we were in there. It could have been just minutes, but it felt like hours. Panic set in and I fought and fought but he was over six feet and built to match, and he pulled my clothes off, piece by piece. He was drunk too, but he was still strong and I was not. I didn’t have a game plan for being attacked at home. I’d never thought about what I would do if something like this happened. I never thought it would happen. I never thought about it at all.

      The oddest thoughts raced through my mind. Does my underwear match and, if so, what a waste, because I will never be able to wear it again. I will never wear any of these clothes again. Do I fight him? Do I just let him do it me so I don’t get hurt? Well, even more hurt. If I fight harder, will he give up or will he get rough? And the thought that now makes the least sense: I wished I was more drunk, much more drunk; then I might not remember this and, if I don’t remember it, how bad could it be? A dreadful, never-to-be-repeated one-night stand?

      And all the time he was muttering, “We both want this, we both want this.” But I didn’t want this. I knew I didn’t want this.

      And yet … I’d invited him in.

      I resigned myself to it. I went limp. There was no way I could win a physical battle. I was little and drunk and weak. And he was big and drunk and strong.

      And just at that moment of surrender he passed out. Just like that. I was naked and he was stripped down to the ugliest pair of Y-fronts I had ever seen. Suddenly his body went slack, his head dropped onto my shoulder and within seconds he was snoring. I couldn’t believe my luck. I lay there stunned. And then I tried to get out from under him. It was the first time I understood the term ‘dead weight’. I couldn’t shift him, and I started to panic. If I woke him, the whole thing would start again, I was sure of it. And, again, he’d be strong and I wouldn’t.

      I couldn’t lift him off me, so I started trying to ease myself out from underneath. It wasn’t easy; he was sweaty, and it was like trying to slip out of wet jeans. And every time I felt as though I was making progress he would half wake and pull me into him and the Great Escape would have to begin again. By the time I got out from under him I was sober – not breathalyser, blood-test sober, but sober enough to understand what had happened and sober enough to know my problems were far from over. He was still there, face down on my bed, and there was no physical way I could make him leave.

      I grabbed my bathrobe, tiptoed out of the bedroom and locked him in. And then I sat down on the couch and cried and cried and cried. The front door was still open. I didn’t get up to close it. What was the point? The bogeyman wasn’t outside any more – he was prostrate on my bed.

      So, why didn’t I call the police? I’d been attacked in my home. I was almost raped. And the almost-rapist was asleep on my bed. He was still there. That’s all I could think: he’s on my bed. He’s still here.

      But I didn’t call the police. I didn’t call because I was drunk. Because I was drunk when he had arrived and would still be drunk by the time they got to my flat. Because my make-up was halfway down my face and I looked like a frightened panda. Because I had invited him for drinks. Because I had let him in. Because there was a cheque in an envelope on the kitchen counter. Because, if I wanted a couple of overworked cops to take me seriously, I had done everything wrong. Because I didn’t think they would take me seriously at all. Because I knew I would battle to believe my own story.

      So I didn’t call the police. I didn’t call anyone. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I sat up all night in my bathrobe, cuddling my cat, who must have known how upset I was because he let me hold him for ages. And he wasn’t that type of cat.

      The