The Witness: A Novel (24 page)

“I’d rather treat you here, if you’ll let me.”

“It’s no use.”

Knowles wasn’t discouraged. “What can you tell me about how you’re feeling?”

How much could she tell him? Colin and Sergeant Casey were both there. Nothing she said would be confidential. “My stomach’s been upset.”

“That could be a result of anxiety. Are you afraid for yourself?” According to Colin, nothing had happened that would affect her safety, but her perception of it was what mattered.

She didn’t answer.

“Are you missing your family? Colin told me that you didn’t go home when your father came. Staying was a very courageous thing to do.”

“Courage had nothing to do with it. I was afraid to go. I didn’t want to put them in danger.”

“Jenny, sometimes we take decisions we regret, or circumstances change and the decision we took is no longer right for us. Do you want to go home?”

“No. I’m different now. I’m tainted.”

She doesn’t want to be with her loved ones. A result of shame? “Jenny, shame is a normal consequence of sexual attack.”

Shame wasn’t the worst consequence. “Why didn’t he kill me? Why did I live when other women didn’t? Didn’t he get better at killing? They should have lived, and I should have died.”

Her most animated discourse thus far, and the subject was death. “Jenny, what you’re feeling is survivor guilt. It’s a symptom of your trauma, and it’s unjustified. You are not responsible for the deaths of the others.”

“There’s no way out.”

“Jenny, why do you feel hopeless? Are you feeling helpless?” He saw her face close. “Would you tell me why you’re so sad?”

She slid down under the covers.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me? To ask me?”

She turned her face away.

Somehow he’d lost her. He stood. “I’ll see you soon, Jenny.”

Davies and Sullivan were waiting in the sitting room. “How’s Jenny?” Sullivan asked. “We’ve been off our heads about her.”

“Still on crisis.”

“Sir, how serious is this? Is she—” Davies didn’t want to say the word.

“Suicidal? Why do you ask? Has she given away her possessions?”

“She’s hardly got any possessions,” Davies said.

Knowles nodded. “There are some indicators, but I’ll be working to shift the balance a bit. In the meantime I’d recommend restricting her access to all medications.”

Casey had followed him out of the bedroom. “I have everything,” he said. “Even the paracetamol.”

“And one of us is always with her,” Sullivan added.

“Anything else we can do?” Casey asked.

“Yes. Continue to check her vital signs. Be alert for any change in coherence. Don’t push her too hard to eat; liquids are more important. But I’d like you to withhold any sedatives. She wants to sleep, but I want her to feel whatever is causing this. Perhaps then she’ll be more likely to disclose it.”

S
inclair and Knowles headed to Hampstead Station. “It’s a rather dismal place,” Knowles mused, “and I don’t imagine your officers provide much emotional support. I didn’t see fear or anger—mostly shame and despair. That concerns me. She may equate anger with loss of control, the loss of control her attacker demonstrated. Shame is safer but more difficult to treat. Have there been any changes in the case which could have upset her?”

“Stark and Michalopolous, Scott’s accomplices, were bailed and released. The charges against them weren’t sufficient for remand. But she wasn’t told. The men censor the newspapers so she isn’t aware of the media attention the Scott case is receiving.”

“Then something else precipitated this. The best therapy occurs when good training and a strong relationship meet. I don’t have the relationship yet, but it often takes more than one session for any sort of trust to develop.”

“We found that to be true in the interview process,” Sinclair commented. “We weren’t successful in getting her to speak with us initially.”

“Tomorrow afternoon then?” Knowles inquired. “I’m booked until three.”

“I’ll meet you here and escort you.”

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A
t the flat Jenny sipped a little Coke. Her stomach was still queasy from time to time, and the Coke seemed to settle it. She wished she could sleep, but the cold-hearted Sergeant Casey wouldn’t give her anything. As time passed, the air grew thicker and heavier, almost like a fog, and the constant presence of the men ceased to register.

The pain started as a cramp low in her stomach, where she thought the baby was, an annoying dull ache that wouldn’t go away. Danny was sitting with her, but she said nothing, trying instead to find a position that was more comfortable. Gradually the pain grew and found focus, becoming sharper and broader, insisting on being noticed. She asked Danny for a cup of hot tea, but it didn’t help the throbbing. She broke out in a sweat and brought her knees up to her chest.

“She’s restless,” Sullivan reported to Casey.

She was doubled up when Casey went in. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Hurts. Like knots being tightened in my belly,” she gasped.

“Where exactly? Near your navel or below?” He lifted her nightshirt. No swelling. She didn’t feel feverish. He felt through her knickers. No tenderness in the lower right quadrant. Not appendicitis then.

“Any pain when you piss?”

“No, it isn’t any of that!”

“Then what the bloody hell is it?”

“I’m bleeding! I think I’m having a miscarriage! Do something!”

He wasted no time. “Davies! I need you now. Sullivan, take the watch.” When Davies arrived, Casey took sterile gloves out of his kit. “Hold her still,” he said.

Davies put the flat of one hand on her chest and restrained her hands with the other. He could not stop her screams.

Sullivan came running. “What’s going on?”

“Give us a minute,” Casey growled. His knife cut through her knickers like a scalpel.

Davies felt her whole body shudder when Casey examined her.

“I don’t know much about women medically,” Casey said, “but you’re not aborting. Bleeding’s not heavy enough. Must be your menstrual period. I’ll treat you for the pain.”

She was shaking and sobbing so hard Davies wasn’t certain she’d be able to get the tablets down.

“How could you?” she cried. “How could you?”

Casey was stunned. “I did the right thing,” he said with an edge to his voice.

“You call what you did
right?
”

“I placed your security first, yes.”

“You were keeping me
secure?
”

“I was quick. I didn’t hurt you.”

“Didn’t hurt me? You bastard! You raped me!”

“I never did!” he yelled, recoiling in shock and outrage. “Damn it, Jenny! You’re bloody minded! Daft! You’ve got it all wrong—it was medical!”

“I couldn’t stop you,” she sobbed.

“Bloody hell!” he swore. “Jenny, look at me!”

Oh God, it was The Voice. If she didn’t obey, there was no telling what he’d do.

“Don’t—you—know—me?” he demanded.

She kept her eyes on his clenched fists. “I know you’re really angry,” she stammered.

He slammed his fist into his open palm, and she jumped. “Damn right! False accusation like that? If you were a man, I’d take you down!” He noted her white face and forced himself to speak more deliberately. “Jenny, I don’t hurt women. Certainly not frightened little rabbits like you. If I’d wanted to grope you, I’d not have used gloves.” He nodded at Davies. “Make Jenny a cuppa. Sweet.”

Davies brought a cup for Casey also. “JJ, I know you’re frightened, but there are some things you need to understand about Casey. He’s treated men far from modern medical facilities. He was trained to be decisive, to do what had to be done as expeditiously as possible. There wasn’t time for niceties.”

“Niceties? He cut off my panties with his—his Bowie knife!”

“Jenny, listen to me. I used the quickest method. I did what I had to do. We’re all here because you’re doing what you have to do. You and
I—we’re cut from the same cloth.”

She hated it when he used her name; it was always bad news. “I don’t scare people.”

“You will,” he said with a measured tone. “When you testify, the man who hurt you is going to be very afraid.”

She looked back at him for the first time. His gaze didn’t waver. “Stop using that voice!” she cried. “It’s like a wall I can’t break through, and I feel so alone!”

“You put the wall up, love. You have to take it down.”

“Oh, you’ve turned the spigot on now,” she said, tearing up at the word “love” and the gentle tone he used when he said it. She wept because she was in pain, because these men knew intimate things about her, and because she was exhausted. She wept because the fog of fear was still inside her, though dormant, like cool yeast.

“There’s a difference between anger and violence, Jenny. It’s time you learnt it.”

“You were in the military,” she countered.

“I have never fired a weapon solely in anger. My military service taught me to channel my aggression.”

She didn’t know what to say. His action had seemed aggressive to her.

“Anger’s a feeling, Jenny. That’s all it is.”

“The monster’s anger nearly killed me.”

“No, his violence did that. Violence is an action, often uncontrolled, like the hurricanes you’ve talked about. Violence results in injury. Anger doesn’t have to lead to violence. People get angry all the time, but they don’t harm each other.”

“Sergeant Casey—it’s not an excuse, but—I was hurting so badly—and I was nearly naked—and Brian could see—and then it got worse, when you—” She stopped. “I was scared out of my mind.”

“That’s about right,” he said. “Jenny, I had to rule out spontaneous abortion. That would have required immediate hospitalisation. Instead your body’s working the way it’s supposed to.”

Sullivan had joined them. “Casey’s action minimised your risk,” he added. “When we took you to hospital to have your cast looked after, we planned well in advance. The time of day, the transport we used, having a treatment room available for you—every detail was prearranged. Taking you on short notice, in traffic, with medical personnel unknown to us, who hadn’t been briefed—you can see how dodgy that would have been, can’t you?”

“But Danny—”

“We’ve no transport, Sis. An ambulance would have taken you to the closest hospital. Bad for our security. And there’s one more thing. If I’m ever hurt, I hope that Casey or someone like him will treat me fast. I don’t give a toss what anybody sees.”

Casey’s medicine was beginning to bring her pain under control. She didn’t need a sedative to sleep.

“She could charge you with indecent assault, mate,” Davies told Casey later. “She didn’t consent. And if Sinclair hears of this, he’ll relieve the lot of us.”

“Acceptable risks,” Casey replied.

W
hen Dr. Knowles returned with Sinclair to the protection flat, he was surprised to see Jenny waiting in the sitting room, Sergeant Casey beside her. She was not completely dressed, however—covered only by a long robe of some sort—and there were lines of exhaustion in her face. A short session then. “Has something changed since yesterday?” he asked.

Casey wanted to control the flow of information. “Her monthly began last night.”

“Why is that something I need to know?” Knowles asked.

“Because it had been so long—too long—weeks and weeks—”

“She thought she was pregnant,” Casey interrupted.

“Jenny, weren’t you told? You were given a drug at hospital to prevent pregnancy. It’s standard operating procedure for rape victims,” Sinclair said.

“Then all that worry—all that fear—it was for nothing?” She began to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” Sinclair soothed. “There never was any possibility of pregnancy.”

“I’ve never had a period hurt like that before. I didn’t know what was happening!”

Emotions which had been blunted the day before were evident now, Knowles noted. A result of desperation? “Jenny, a woman’s cycle can be disrupted by stress in any number of ways.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Casey said and left.

“You didn’t feel you could ask your protection officers? Or Colin?” Knowles persisted.

“Ask them what? ‘What are the symptoms of pregnancy?’ They’re all guys!”

“Are you feeling isolated then?”

“I’m like Edvard Munch’s screaming woman. Are you familiar with that painting? Her face is featureless except for her gaping mouth.”

“And no one can hear her cries. Are you crying inside, Jenny, where no one can hear?”

“Inside and out,” she sobbed, accepting Colin’s handkerchief. “The
monster’s still here. Imprinted. He’s in my pores.”

“Monster?” Knowles turned to Sinclair.

“Scott,” Sinclair answered.

“Jenny, Munch’s woman is part of a landscape in upheaval. Do you feel insecure here?”

“Sort of,” she answered, thinking of Casey’s examination. “They’re men, and I don’t know what they’ll do. The only thing I’m sure of is gravity—when I fall, I always go down.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands.

“It’s my understanding that they volunteered for extended duty. That would seem to indicate a strong desire to help.”

“But they can’t! No one can.”

“Why have you lost hope, Jenny?”

“Because I feel so lost! I can’t change what happened. I’ve turned into a person I don’t know, a despicable person. I belong in unconsecrated ground.”

“Jenny, if I may—I think you’re grieving. You’ve had a succession of serious losses. Innocence—independence—even identity.”

“I’m not the person I was. He took it all away! And I can’t get over it.”

“There’s no timetable on grief, Jenny. Sometimes grief is more intense, sometimes less so, but when you’ve had a significant loss, it never leaves you completely. Once you have grieved, it will always be a part of your experience.”

She wiped her cheeks. “That doesn’t sound like good news.”

Knowles smiled gently. “Repeated shocks have worn you down, but you’re going to come through. I won’t lie to you and tell you that someday you’ll forget. It just won’t always hurt so much to remember.”