A shabby city street, it lay beyond the bright centre, before the tidy suburbs. Working light-poles stood few and far between. A sad terrace of small shops were mostly boarded or shuttered. A garish, fast-food 'take-away' clung to one block's corner, facing a '7/11' mini-mart across a dark side-road. A small, red car pulled up, the passenger door opened, a quiet argument continued.

'No, no, Mairi, I'll be fine. I just need to grab some shopping, then I'm minutes from home. You'd best stay out of these side-roads. There's always gangs of yobs around the stadium; they took City's relegation hard, and your car's the wrong colour...

'The Walford Werewolf ? Nah, he'll be lying low after that girl's small dog bit his leg...

'Yeah, we sure got through a lot of eBay orders this evening, Mairi; I reckon we've kept the business afloat for another couple of months ! Okay, see you Tuesday morning ! Drive carefully !'

A drably dressed twenty-something in strong, dark shoes and a long, dark, hooded coat, she closed the car door and stepped to the shadowed entrance of the mini-mart. The owner recognised her from the night-vision CCTV, buzzed the door open. 'You're out late, my friend Alison ! Is something wrong ?'

'Long day at the office, Sahim.' Alison spoke to the grille in the battered security screen that divided the small shop. 'Had to catch the last DHL pick-up. But, we got a bunch of eBay orders away before the long weekend, so we're still in business...'

'That is good, my friend Alison. These are difficult times.'

'You said it, Sahim...'

'What wonderful provender will you purchase tonight, my friend ?'

'Usual milk and bread rolls, baked beans and hot-dog tins, Sahim. Box of that cheap breakfast cereal. Bargain bag of your five-minute noodles.' She passed a lonely bank-note through the reinforced slot. 'Is there enough left from this ten for a big tin of cat food ?'

'I will see, my friend; are you still feeding that young stray ?'

' 'Skinny Kitty' ? Sure. In a week or two, I'll borrow a live-trap cage from the Animal Rescue Centre. They'll soon place her.'

'Is she still catching rats ?'

'Oh, yes, two or three a night; I swear some are bigger than her...'

'Would that she'd cull the two-legged vermin...' Sahim glanced at the CCTV. 'These are bad times to be out after dark...'

'The 'Walford Werewolf' ? He'll still be hurting from that dog-bite--'

'There are others--'

'I know...' Alison shook her head, swirling shoulder length, mousey hair. 'Lost a school-friend to a gang attack. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong clothes. Mistook for some-one else. Bled out...'

'I am so sorry, my friend... And, again, I am sorry; prices have risen, you have only a few coppers in change.'

Alison shrugged, said, 'Throw them in the charity jar, Sahim. There are folk worse off than us.'

'That is so true, my friend. Do you wish to pack your own bags ?'

'Please...'

'Thank you, my friend.' Sahim worked the interlocked shutters, let her take the groceries from the delivery chute. She put all the tins in a doubled bag to her right, the rest in a bigger bag on her left. 'Take care, my friend...'

'And you, Sahim.' Looking both ways before stepping out of the doorway, Alison crossed the empty street and headed down the facing side-road. There were even fewer pole lights. Every house window was closely curtained and shuttered lest it draw a brick or worse. Every small, front garden was a dark tangle of weeds, broken furniture and trash-bags. Alison stayed near the kerb, but not too close, balancing the twin threats of drive-by and ambush.

When she approached an alley entrance, she automatically drifted to the kerb-side. As the angle opened, her wary scan showed the tall alley gates were closed, but a ripped mattress or couch cushion stood against one corner. It seemed scant cover but, without breaking stride, she crouched slightly, refreshed her grip on her bags.

Alison had barely cleared the alley's crumbling slab when debris scuffed. Instantly, she ducked and twirled. The bag of cans swung fast and low. It slammed her stalker's shin. He yelled with pain and surprise. Completing her turn, she impaled her other bag on his vicious hunting knife. Releasing the handle to drag the blade down, she slammed the heel of that hand into his face. He yelled louder. She used the moment's respite to swing her bag of cans upwards. It slammed against his full-bearded head, tore off part of the hairy disguise, drew another yell.

In the near-darkness, Alison released the bag of cans to fill his arms, threw a right-hand strike at his eyes. He recoiled with a gasp as she connected. Alison followed with stiff fingers to his throat, missing the vital wind-pipe, but gouging soft flesh beneath the jaw. A second heel-hand scrunched his nose, which began to bleed. She used the distraction to pivot, to grab and twist the knife hand, to turn into him. Her astonished attacker rolled across her hip, his weapon sent skittering into the dark. He thudded to the ground. She stepped forwards, kicked him in the side. Her safety shoes' steel toe-caps drew a loud gasp. She kicked him again, harder, breaking several ribs. Then, it all went wrong.

Somehow, he slapped her third kick aside, rolled up and leapt. A big man, he was very, very strong. His hands caught her arms. He picked her up, swung her around. In two strides, he reached the alley gates. He slammed her against them. It jolted the wind from her lungs, banged her head so she saw stars. Still, she managed to lash out with her left foot and connect hard.

'Bitch !' He hissed. 'That's my sore leg again ! For that, you've a world of hurt !'

He dropped her onto wobbly legs. Before she could scream, he back-handed her across the face, then punched her diaphragm. Her breathing almost paralysed, she crumpled, sprawled. He rolled her onto her back. Dazed, she felt her long coat being ripped open, then pulled down off her shoulders to pin her arms to her sides. Her cheap, beige cardigan followed. Those terrible hands returned, grabbed her red T-shirt and tore it apart, letting cold October air flood her cringeing skin. Before she could blink, a hand seized her knee-skirt and tights' waist-bands, wrenched them down to tangle her knees. For a heart-beat, the attack ceased. Then her modest boy-briefs, too, went South. Both hands closed on her small bra, tugged hard. The cups' connection parted.

Alison was still frozen by the gut blow, but his second, stunning back-hand was insurance. To her further horror, she heard a trouser zip open. He loomed over her, the fake beard brushing her nose. With her helpless, he seemed to relax. He jabbed a strong finger at her upper left arm. 'Hey, that's a nice tat ! You didn't look the sort... Well, here's Johnny--"

He clutched her shoulders, came down on her. Alison felt his erect man-hood slide against her upper thighs, would have screamed if she could. Then, the clouds parted for a moment and the Full Moon shone in her eyes. All she knew for that singular instant was pure, blind hate.

'Aargh ! What the--' he gasped, then gabbled, 'No ! No, no, no, nnnn...'

He slumped, limp, across her. Gut-punched, bruised, shivering and dazed, it was long, long minutes before she could squirm from beneath his prostrate form and catch her breath.

Then, at last, she could scream.

Segue to time-lapse of 'police procedural'. Flood-lamps appeared on stands. Orange incident tape was draped hither and yon. A numbered marker showed where the hunting knife halted. A tent covered the mouth of the alley. Several Police vehicles waited. Beyond the tape, beyond the pools of light, many of Alison's horrified neighbours gathered to stare at the crime scene on their door-step.

Alison huddled on the couch of the cosy 'Victim Response Vehicle'. Part ambulance, part CSI suite, it was warm, had pastel colours, soft musak, and was just bright enough to hold nightmares at bay. The two female technicians had carefully recorded her many scrapes and bruises. They took and bagged her ruined clothes, bagged her shoes and socks, gave her a sterile paper over-all and a rustling foil blanket. They had also taken many wipings and swabs from her, albeit with the greatest delicacy.

A remarkably young female police officer had quietly, considerately taken Alison's initial statement. Her near-nakedness, her bruises, his injuries, the knife, even the scattered shopping would surely put paid to any attempt by the 'Walford Werewolf' to claim 'Consensual'. Yes, he lived. Yes, he remained unconscious, under heavy guard. Yes, his newly re-bandaged leg's injury appeared to match a certain small dog's teeth. Yet, given his dozen previous attacks, with scant forensics and the victims either dead or too traumatised to testify, it was prudent to dot each 'i' and cross each 't' legibly...

The taller technician returned from the vehicle's cab with a mug of steaming liquid. 'Here you go ! Strong, sweet, milky tea. Good for shock.'

'Oh, you angel !' Between wary sips, Alison thought to ask, 'What happened to him ? I-- I thought I was done for, then he just cried out and collapsed across me...'

'Sorry, we don't know. Word is the hospital's still running tests. And there's still no ID for him...'

'Be too much to hope the bastard's had a stroke...'

'Bad reaction to Viagra, perhaps ?' The technician shook her head. 'There was a part-strip in his pocket.'

'I-- I thought I'd beaten him. I really did...' Alison forced a sigh from her aching body. 'But he rolled up and grabbed me !'

'Sister, you did a real number on him,' the technician whispered. 'Broken cheek-bone, broken nose, tore up his throat. Multiple internal injuries. He may yet lose an eye. And you burst open that dog-bite-- His boot was full of blood ! But you said he kept going ? I'd love a peek at his tox screen--'

'Uh...' Alison looked up as a third medic clambered into the truck. 'Huh ?'

'Hi ! Alison Jones ? I'm Rachel Ashworth, a Crisis Counsellor. May I ask you some questions--'

'I've given my statement. You have the Perp and ample evidence. He collapsed before he penetrated, so I'm okay there. Well, just about. What else is there to say ?'

'No, no, I'd like to talk about you !'

'Huh ?'

'We're-- I'm very impressed by your statement. I've seen the initial report on the suspect's injuries-- I've a Black Belt in Taekwondo and, well, I don't think I could have done better. Remarkable prescence of mind--'

'You don't live around here...' Alison shrugged. 'Urban Jungle 101-- Nest contingencies; be a *difficult* victim.'

'Ah...' A respectful nod. 'Still, could we talk about you ?'

'Why ?'

'In our experience, talking now can mitigate PTSD.'

'Ah...'

'And you have a sealed file. Twenty years on, the flag codes suggest it is still relevant.'

'Oh, sh**t... Yeah, well, I suppose my case is still open. DNA register could throw up my mum, dad or a half-sib. Hmm. Could a medic sit with us ?' Alison pointed to the helpful technician. 'In case I lose my rag ?'

The two exchanged glances, nods.

Alison drained the cup, asked, 'And I'd love another cup of this magic tea...'

'On it...' The technician ducked through to the cab, dispensed more nectar from her partner's big Thermos flask.

'Thank you...'

'Okay... Let's start at the beginning, Alison. You're adopted, but your file is sealed and flagged--'

'I'm not surprised...' Alison heaved a painful sigh, asked, 'Do you both have strong stomachs ? When I was fully briefed at sixteen, I was so shocked I considered killing myself.'

'That bad ?' Rachel wondered, then nodded, said, 'I was in Bosnia with the war-grave teams.'

'I helped retrieve and sort body-parts after the London Tube bombing,' the technician admitted. 'Woke screaming for months...'

'Fair enough.' Alison nodded. 'But this is still 'Need To Know'...'

'Understood.'

'I'm a Foundling.' Alison reluctantly began. 'I was spotted sitting alone on a bench at Euston Station, nibbling a warm Sayer's sausage roll. I had a parcel label with 'Alison 3 yrs' tied through my shabby coat's top button-hole, a worn teddy-bear in the crook of my arm. When asked, I said that Nanny had gone to the toilet. CCTV showed my 'Nanny' going in with a big bag, but that, her hat, her long, dark coat and her cheap shoes were stuffed in the trash...'

'Ah... And you weren't reported missing ?'

'For good reason, perhaps... My hospital check-up found I'd been repeatedly raped, front and back--'

'What ? At three ? That-- That doesn't seem physically possible...'

'Yeah, well, I needed prompt surgery to close my anal and genital fissures. I had icky plastic surgery at puberty to clean up the scars and re-make me as a virgin.' Alison swallowed bile. 'Got worse. I could chat in a bunch of languages; English, German, Spanish, Russian, Latvian, Turkish and Montenegrin. But my vocabulary came from a brothel--'

'Uh--'

'And they'd begun training me. My 'Uncle's Happy Dance' was a strip-tease.' Alison shuddered. 'Remember an excerpt from 'My Boy Lollipop' played at the London 2012 Olympics ? I-- I barely made it to the kitchen sink before I chucked up. That tune had been my cue for oral sex.'

Both medics paled, shook their heads.

'Quite...' Alison shrugged. 'I was quietly fostered for a year or so, then adopted. Max and Mary Jones were 'Empty Nesters'. They'd been told enough of my background to raise me kindly-- I still don't know how they managed not to be over-protective. Dad was ex-Army, ex-Police-- Uniform, not CID; he taught me self-reliance and to look beyond the obvious. Mum noticed I was exceptional at colour matching, determined I was a rare tetrachromatic. I developed a deft touch with a cross-stitch needle, could make her sewing machine dance. I wasn't too good at book-learning, but I went to Art College, studied 'Design and Fashion', went on to get a 'BA Fashion' degree...

'What with the 'Long Gloom' and all those Asian sweat-shops, there's not much call for such skills in the UK. Three of us ex-students pooled our cash, began making 'Specials' for sale on eBay. Did so well, we got a modest grant and hired a small workshop. That first year was scary. But, we met our deadlines, grew our ratings and cash-flow. If anything, this year has been worse. The exchange rate hike crippled us. If I hadn't been able to Live Chat in a bunch of languages, we might have gone under...'

'You kept up those languages ?' Rachel puzzled.

'Dad's idea, and my Counsellors agreed. The Linguaphone courses over-wrote most of my ghastly associations.'

'You're polyglot ?'

'Not exactly. Think Tourist-Plus. But even a few kind words can make all the difference...'

'Uh-huh... Now, I'm sorry to have to come back to tonight, but you described your fight informally...'

'That's because I never did a formal 'Style'. Dad taught me to rassle and strike, my secondary school had self-defence classes, and the College Student's Union ran a free safety course. Rule #1; don't be an easy victim. Rule #2; if cornered, fight like a momma-cat. But I still can't figure why he suddenly collapsed...'

The technician shrugged. 'Scant loss if he doesn't make it...'

'One thing I must ask...' Rachel admitted. 'You said he commented on your tattoo...'

'Helen ? Yeah, she is a bit raunchy-- Raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you ! I was given her in the brothel. They must have drugged me; I vaguely remember waking with a headache and an itchy arm. But I thought she was so pretty ! I used to look in the mirror and talk to her !'

'You've had her since then ?'

'Sure !  Wasn't long before Nanny left me at the station...' Alison shrugged. 'Dermatology clinic's tattooist added a cute bikini, but I still had to wear a half-sleeve at school.'

'Added ? Didn't they try to zap the tat ?'

'Oh, they tried. But I was so skinny and it was an old-fashioned tat, ran too deep. Alternative was a messy skin graft and, well, I'd been through enough...'

'May I have a look ?'

'Welcome...' Alison un-zipped her paper overall, began easing the white fabric down off her left shoulder. 'Funny how Helen's stayed much the same since I was small. You'd think she'd stretch or shift or twist or fade or something...'

'Ooh, that is a nice tat !' Rachel peered at Alison's upper arm.

'She is so pretty, even for a saucy, red she-devil !' The medic agreed. 'And her eyes almost glow !'

'Yeah, Helen's a looker !' Alison managed a quiet chuckle. 'But, you should have seen her before she got a bikini-- Wow !"

Counsellor and technician exchanged glances. The medic hastily delved in an equipment drawer, found a hand mirror.

'Did he damage...' Alison began, then just stared.

The full-frontal she-devil on her upper arm was nude...

===

Nik-note: In its WIP, this is the 'pilot' for a TV series...