The disappearance of 33-year-old Sarah Everard has dominated the conversations of my girlfriends’ group chats for days. And it has haunted me, even before yesterday’s arrest of a Metropolitan Police officer on suspicion of her murder and the grim discovery of – at time of writing, unidentified – human remains.
Sarah went missing shortly after 9.30pm on Wednesday 3 March while walking home to Brixton from a friend’s house in Clapham. My housemate and I have sat up at night ruminating over those last moments between Sarah and her friend, imagining how they might have parted.
“Get home safe”, “Text me when you get home” are the habitual but sincere farewells of all the women I know. We think about the absence of the consoling text.
