The Truth-Teller's Lie (15 page)

‘Because Naomi Jenkins
was
raped, and she wasn’t the only one. This is a series,’ Charlie uttered the words every detective dreaded. ‘Tell Simon and Proust I’m on my way back.’

Part II

Speak Out and Survive

Survivor Story no. 31 (posted July 3, 2001)

This is so hard, forcing myself to write about what happened to me. It’s only reading the pages of stories on this brilliant website and seeing how brave other women are willing to be that makes me want to try to do the same. I was raped three weeks ago, and the monster who did it told me that if I ever told anyone or went to the police, he would find me again and kill me.

I believed him then, and I still do. I know a lot of men who rape are inadequate or mentally ill, but this man seemed confident, not one of life’s losers. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding a girlfriend. He did not need to do what he did to me; he wanted to do it.

I was in Bristol city centre when he approached me. I had just come out of a meeting and had another one that evening, so I decided to look for something to eat. I am not from Bristol, so do not know its restaurants very well. I found a café that I liked the look of, called the One Stop Thali Shop. I was standing outside, looking through the window, on the point of going in, when the man approached me.

He called out my name as he walked over, and I thought I must know him. He came and stood beside me, and it was only then that I saw the knife. I was petrified. He made me walk to his car at knifepoint, telling me he’d cut my insides up if I screamed or alerted anyone. Once I was in the car, he put an eye mask over my eyes so that I couldn’t see.

I’m not going to be able to write about everything that happened—it’s too painful, and still too raw. He drove me somewhere—I don’t know where—and only removed the mask once we were inside. It was a little theatre with a stage. He said to me, ‘Do you want to warm up before the show?’ but he wouldn’t tell me what the show was going to be.

I knew I would find out soon, and I did. An audience arrived, all together in a group. Four men and three women. The women being there was one of the worst things about it. How can women enjoy seeing those things done to another woman? If that’s their idea of a fun night out, I feel sorrier for them than I do for myself.

All seven of them were middle-aged verging on old. Two of the men had moustaches and beards. I hate men with facial hair. One had a proper bushy ‘Santa’ beard, but brown, and the other was one of those stupid beards that’s like a circular plucked eyebrow around the mouth.

The chairs were not in rows like in normal theatres. They sat around a table, and while I was being attacked on stage, they ate dinner. Before he got started on me, the man served them their starters: small plates of Parma ham with rocket and Parmesan. I know this because he told them what it was.

This is so hard. I thought my suffering was over at one point, because I was taken off the stage, and I thought the man might be finished with me. He’d promised me that if I cooperated he wouldn’t kill me, and I had cooperated. Even though he was a monster, I believed him about this. He didn’t want to kill me. All he wanted was for me to help him put on his ‘show’.

But it wasn’t over. I can’t write about what happened next, but it was worse than what happened on the stage. When the rapist had finally finished, he tried to persuade the man with the bushy beard—who was called Des—to rape me as well. Des climbed on top of me but, thank God, couldn’t get an erection.

After they’d got as much entertainment out of me as they could, the mask was put over my eyes again and I was driven back to Bristol and pushed out on to the pavement outside the One Stop Thali Shop. My car keys and handbag were thrown on the pavement next to me. No one was around. I found my car, and although I was in no fit state, I drove all the way home. By the time I got back it was mid-morning. My neighbours were in their garden, and watched me walk from my car to the front door. That afternoon, one of them, the woman, rang my bell and asked if there was anything she could do. She asked me if I’d been to the police. I told her to mind her own business, and slammed the door on her. I knew I’d be killed if I said anything. The creature that attacked me knew my name and address and lots of other things about me.

I’ve hardly been out of the house since. I can’t face my neighbours—I’m selling my house. I spend all my time having elaborate revenge fantasies, which is pathetic because that’s all they will ever be—fantasies. Even if I mustered the courage to go to the police, it’s probably too late by now. I’ve already done everything wrong—I had a bath as soon as I got home.

It would have been better if he hadn’t known my name. As it is, I feel as if I’ve been singled out and I don’t know why. Is it something I’ve done? I know the attack was not my fault, and I don’t blame myself, but I would like to know what it was about me that made him choose me. I feel so alone now, so separate from the rest of the world. I just want to get back in somehow.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Name and email address withheld

SRISA (Survivors of Rape, Incest and Sexual Abuse)

MY STORY Story no. 12 (posted February 16, 2001)

i can’t believe there are so many of us, i was raped last year in the indian restarant where i worked, this is the first time ive told anyone, i stayed late that night because the two men hadn’t finished there curry and beers, i told the boss id lock up, that was the biggest mistake of my life. They were both drunk, drunk pigs, they wouldn’t pay there bill, one pushed me down on the table and said my friends just the warm up im the main attraction. He called me the star of the show, he wanted to go last. They took turns, the first one couldnt get hard, the one who said he was the main attraction said use a beer bottle instead, the other man did, then the one who called himself main attraction turned me over so I was face down he forced himself on me that way, it hurt so much, the one who couldnt get hard had a camera and took photos of what the other one did, they made me tell them my name and where I live and where my family live. They said they would send the photos to my family if I went to the police, i have not been to the police yet but one day i will because I cant live with this if those pigs don’t pay for what they did, and i am not going to let them ruin the rest of my life, i want to say to everyone whos been thru what I have, keep fighting.

Tanya, Cardiff
Email address withheld

12

4/6/06

SIMON DIDN’T LIKE the way Juliet Haworth was looking at him. As if she was waiting for him to do something, and the longer he didn’t do it, the more amusing she thought it was. Colin Sellers was asking the questions, but she wasn’t interested in him. She addressed all her answers and her asides—of which there were plenty—to Simon. He couldn’t work out why. Was it because he was the one she’d met first?

‘It’s unusual for a person in your situation not to want a lawyer present,’ said Sellers conversationally.

‘Is this interview going to be identical to the last one?’ asked Juliet. ‘How boring.’ She was doing something with her hair as she spoke, hands behind her head.

‘Did you get bored of your husband? Is that why you struck him repeatedly with a rock?’

‘Robert’s not talkative enough to bore anyone. He’s quiet, but not in a dull way. He’s very deep. I know it sounds corny.’ Juliet’s tone was chatty and conspiratorial. She sounded like a member of an in-crowd complimenting another person belonging to the same set. Simon thought of those ‘100 Greatest’ programmes on Channel 4, the ones in which celebrities were always full of matey praise for one another.

‘Robert’s behaviour might be predictable, but his thoughts aren’t. I’m sure Naomi’s already told you all this. I’m sure she’s being much more helpful than I could ever be. Look.’ Juliet turned round to show him that her hair was in a tight plait, sort of woven into the back of her head. ‘A perfect braid, and I did it without mirrors or anything. Pretty impressive, no?’

‘Has your husband ever been violent towards you?’

She frowned at Sellers as if irritated by his intrusion. ‘Can you find me a hair bobble?’ She pointed to the back of her neck. ‘Otherwise it’ll come loose again.’

‘Was he habitually violent?’

Juliet laughed. ‘Do I look like a victim to you? A minute ago you had me stoving Robert’s head in with a rock. Make up your mind.’

‘Was your husband physically or psychologically abusive towards you, Juliet?’

‘You know what? I think it’ll make your job more exciting if I don’t tell you anything.’ She nodded at the file in Simon’s hands. ‘Have you got a spare bit of paper?’ she said in a softer voice. She was doing everything she could to make her preference clear. If she wanted Simon to play a more prominent role, he was determined to do as little as possible. Juliet didn’t seem to give a damn about what happened to her; the only leverage he had at the moment was that she appeared to want something from him.

Sellers pulled a torn envelope out of his pocket and passed it across the table to Juliet, rolling a pen after it.

She leaned forward, spent a few seconds writing, then pushed the envelope towards Simon with a smile. He did nothing. Sellers picked it up and glanced at it briefly before holding it out behind him for Simon to take. Damn. Now he had no choice. Juliet’s grin widened. Simon didn’t like the way she was trying to communicate with him privately in a way that both used and excluded Sellers. He considered leaving the room, leaving Sellers to it. How would she react to that?

She’d written four lines on the envelope, either a poem or part of one:

Human uncertainty is all

That makes the human reason strong.

We never know until we fall

That every word we speak is wrong.

‘What is this?’ asked Simon, annoyed that he didn’t know it. She couldn’t have made it up, not so quickly.

‘My thought for the day.’

‘Tell me about your sexual relationship with your husband,’ said Sellers.

‘I don’t think so.’ She sniggered. ‘Tell me about yours with your wife. I see you’re wearing a wedding ring. Men didn’t used to, did they?’ she said to Simon. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to remember that things were ever different from how they are now, don’t you think? The past vanishes, and it’s as if the present state of affairs has always existed. You have to make a real effort to remember how things used to be.’

‘Would you describe your sexual relationship as normal?’ Sellers persisted. ‘Do you still sleep together?’

‘At the moment Robert’s sleeping in the hospital. He may never wake up, according to DC Waterhouse.’ Her tone implied that Simon might have lied about this simply to be mischievous.

‘Before he was injured, would you say you and your husband had a normal sexual relationship?’ Sellers sounded a lot more patient than Simon felt.

‘I wouldn’t say anything on that subject, I don’t think,’ said Juliet.

‘If you had a lawyer here, or if you’d let us bring one in, he or she would advise you that if you don’t want to answer a question, you say “no comment”.’

‘If I wanted to say “no comment”, I’d have said it. My comment is that I’d prefer not to answer the question. Like Bartleby.’

‘Who?’

‘He’s a fictional character,’ Simon muttered. ‘Bartleby the Scrivener. Whatever he was asked to do, he said, “I would prefer not to.”’

‘Except he wasn’t being interviewed by the police,’ said Juliet. ‘He was just working in an office. Or, rather, not working. A bit like me. I suppose you know I’ve got no job, no career. And no kids. Just Robert. And now maybe not even him.’ She stuck out her bottom lip, parodying a sad expression.

‘Has your husband ever raped you?’

Juliet looked surprised, perhaps even a little bit angry. Then she laughed. ‘What?’

‘You heard the question.’

‘Haven’t you lot heard of Occam’s razor? The simplest explanation and all that? You should hear yourselves! Has Robert ever raped me? Has he ever been violent? Has he psychologically abused me? The poor man’s lying in hospital with a life-threatening injury, and you’re—’ She stopped suddenly.

‘What?’ said Sellers.

Her shrewd, knowing eyes had lost their sharpness. She appeared distracted as she said, ‘Until quite recently it was legal for a man to rape his wife. Imagine that now, it hardly seems possible. I remember when I was a kid, walking through town with my mum and dad, and we saw a poster that said, “Rape in marriage—make it a crime.” I had to ask my parents what it meant.’ She was speaking automatically, and not about what was really on her mind.

‘Juliet, if you didn’t try to kill Robert, why don’t you tell us who did?’ said Sellers.

Her expression cleared instantly. Her focus had returned, but Simon sensed a change of mood. The flippancy had gone. ‘Has Naomi told you that Robert raped her?’

Simon opened his mouth to answer, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Juliet’s eyes widened. ‘She has, hasn’t she? She’s unbelievable!’

‘You mean she’s lying?’ said Sellers.

‘Yes. She’s lying.’ Juliet sounded deadly serious for the first time since the interview began. ‘What exactly did she say he did?’

‘I’ll answer your questions when you answer mine,’ said Sellers. ‘Fair’s fair.’

‘There’s no fairness involved,’ said Juliet dismissively. ‘Let me guess. She said there were men watching, eating dinner. Did she say Robert raped her on a stage? Was she tied to a bed? Bedposts with acorns on the top, by any chance?’

Something in Simon’s head snapped. He was on his feet. ‘How the fuck do you know all that?’

‘I want to talk to Naomi,’ said Juliet. Her smile had returned.

‘You lied to us about your husband’s whereabouts. You spent six days living in the house with him upstairs, beaten nearly to death, unconscious, lying in his own filth, and you didn’t phone an ambulance. Your bloody fingerprints are on that doorstop, prints in Robert’s blood. We’ve got enough to convict you several times over. It doesn’t matter what you say to us or don’t say.’

Juliet’s face was impassive. Simon might as well have read her his shopping list instead, for all the difference it would have made. ‘I want to speak to Naomi,’ she repeated. ‘In private. Just the two of us, nice and cosy.’

‘Tough.’

‘You must know that’s a non-starter, so why bother asking?’ said Sellers.

‘You want to know what happened to Robert?’

‘I know you tried to kill him, which is all I need to know,’ said Simon. ‘We’re going to charge you with attempted murder, Juliet. Are you sure you don’t want that solicitor?’

‘Why would I try to kill my own husband?’

‘Even without a motive, we’ll get a conviction, which is all I care about.’

‘That might be true of your friend—’ Juliet nodded at Sellers ‘—but I don’t think it’s true of you. You want to know. And so does your boss. What’s her name? DS Zailer. She’s a woman, you see, and women like to have the whole story. Well, I’m the only person who knows it.’ The pride in her voice was unmistakable. ‘You tell your boss from me: if she doesn’t let me talk to that bitch-cunt Naomi Jenkins, I’m the only person who’ll ever know the truth. It’s up to you.’

‘We can’t,’ Simon said to Sellers as they walked back to the CID room. ‘Charlie’ll say it’s out of the question, and it is. Jenkins and Juliet Haworth alone together in an interview room? We’d have another attempted murder on our hands. At the very least, Haworth’d taunt Jenkins with the details of her rape. Imagine the headlines: “Police allow murderess to taunt rape victim.”’

Sellers wasn’t paying attention. ‘Why does Juliet Haworth think I don’t care about knowing the truth? Arrogant bitch. Why would you care more than I do?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘Does she think I’m thick or something? Unimaginative? That’s fucking ironic. She ought to hear the story I’ve told Stace to cover my week away with Suki. You know, I’ve even typed up a programme of activities for our team-building retreat, on police headed paper?’

‘I don’t want to know,’ said Simon. ‘I’m not lying to Stacey if I meet her while you’re away and she asks me why I’m not with you in . . . wherever we’re supposed to be.’

Sellers chuckled. ‘You say that now, mate, but I know you
would
lie for me, if it came to it. Let’s have less of the false modesty!’

Simon was keen to drop the subject. They’d discussed it before, too often. Sellers was always good-humoured in the face of criticism, which irritated Simon nearly as much as having his scruples treated as if they were some kind of endearing affectation. Sellers
was
unimaginative, in this respect at least: he couldn’t conceive of anyone genuinely, sincerely, disapproving of his ongoing infidelity. Why should anybody want to spoil his fun, when it was all gain and no pain, nobody was getting hurt? He was too optimistic, Simon thought. It was fun at the moment, and Sellers couldn’t see that it had the potential to turn into anything else. Like losing his wife and kids, if Stacey Sellers ever found out. Until you’ve really suffered, thought Simon, you can’t imagine what that level of pain might feel like.

‘I had an idea for Gibbs’ wedding present,’ said Sellers. ‘I know it’s not for ages, but I want to get it sorted sooner rather than later. I’ve got more important things to think about.’ He made a lewd gesture. ‘Holiday preparations . . . lubrications . . . ejaculations . . .’

‘Marital separations,’ muttered Simon, thinking about the poem Juliet Haworth had written on the envelope. She wasn’t a typical lorry driver’s wife, any more than Naomi Jenkins was the average lorry driver’s mistress. They’ve got more in common with each other than with him, thought Simon. Hard to know if he was right, with Haworth saying even less than the two women were. ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked Sellers.

‘A sundial.’

Simon laughed in his face. ‘For Gibbs? Wouldn’t he prefer a can of Special Brew? Or a porn video?’

‘You know the Snowman’s got a book about sundials?’

‘Yeah. Do you know who bought him that book, and didn’t get paid back?’

‘I had a look at it. You can get this thing put on called a nodus.’

‘You mean a gnomon?’

‘No, all sundials have got those. A nodus is usually a round ball, although it doesn’t have to be. It goes on the gnomon, so that there’s like a blob that stands out on the edge of the shadow. Anyway, you can have a horizontal line put on the dial if you’ve got a special date or something—Gibbs and Debbie’s wedding day for example. The horizontal date line crosses the downward time lines, the ones that mark out the hours and half-hours. And on that date every year, the shadow of the nodus follows the line all the way along. Do you get what I mean?’

‘The specifics are irrelevant,’ said Simon. ‘In general, it’s a bad idea. Gibbs wouldn’t want a sundial. He’d perk up when he heard the words “date line”, but ultimately he’d be disappointed.’

‘Debbie might want one.’ Sellers sounded hurt. ‘They’re nice, sundials. I’d like one. Proust said he would too.’

‘Debbie wants to marry Gibbs. We can assume her taste’s as bad as his.’

‘All right, you fucking killjoy! I just wanted to get it sorted, that’s all. When I get back from my week with Suki, the wedding’ll only be a couple of days off. You lot’ll have to sort it while I’m away, if you leave it till the last minute. God, talk about putting a dampener on things. I know Gibbs isn’t exactly—’

‘Exactly.’

‘—but, you know, I just thought maybe we should aim high for a change.’

‘“Look up in the sun’s eye and give what the exultant heart calls good that some new day might breed the best, because you gave not what they would but the right twigs for an eagle’s nest.”’ Simon smiled. He wondered if Juliet Haworth would recognise the quote. Sellers didn’t. ‘W. B. Yeats. But he’d never met Chris Gibbs, and if he had, he’d have thought again.’