The Witness: A Novel (26 page)

Tonight, however, her search for peace eluded her. She sat down on the floor next to her window and peeked out. All was quiet in the world outside, a world she missed being a part of. There must have been rain earlier in the day, because every detail of the landscape was evident, like a painting made with a fine brush. But no one would have painted this scene: It was boring. She heard Brian’s footsteps too late. She let the curtain fall back into place, but it was still swinging slightly when he looked in, and his eyes went to it immediately. “Brian, I’m so bored.”

He had learnt long ago that his size alone was enough to frighten most people. He knew better than to add an angry, explosive voice, so he kept it quiet and controlled. “We all are, Jenny. Do you hear me?
We all are.
You’ve done this for the last time.”

He hadn’t used her nickname, JJ. A bad sign. She climbed into bed and pulled up the covers, a pitiful attempt at self-defense.

He walked over to her, making no attempt to disguise his bulk. “This is not a game. You should know that better than anyone.” He spoke slowly, making every word clear. “If we’re found, someone could get killed. How will you feel if someone dies because you were bored?”

“How—how do you know there were other times?” It was a whisper.

“We brief each other.”

“Are you going to tell Sergeant Casey?”

“Jenny, understand me. This just won’t do. Will you play by the rules? Show some integrity? I need to know.”

“Yes, but—what are you going to do?”

“For now, I’ll keep you company.” He pulled one of the armchairs to the window and sat down. “For the rest—I’m not prepared to say.”

His stature and his silence were sobering. Oh, he was such a
policeman
, going on about the rules, making her feel like a disobedient child. What would he do? He wouldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t take away her privileges; she didn’t have any. He could withhold chocolate. He could make her eat Brussels sprouts. No, that’s silly. Oh—he could leave. They all could. They could decide they’d had enough and turn her over to someone else. Colin had said they were here voluntarily. Of course they were bored—the endless poker games and the books and magazines strewn all over the flat were evidence of their attempts to occupy themselves. “Brian, I’m sorry.” It came out as a whimper. “You won’t leave me, will you? Please don’t. I need you guys.” She choked on her words. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt. Honest, I don’t.”

His tone softened. “JJ, you need to join the team. Work with us, not against us.”

“I will,” she promised. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Tomorrow. Sleep now.” He turned off the lamp, and the room was dark except for the nightlight. The nightlight he had provided. She watched him seat himself again, still facing her, but his presence was no longer portentous.

I
n the morning there was no indication that Danny and Sergeant Casey knew about her recent disobedience. Jenny did her exercises under Casey’s watchful eye, trying to do at least one or two more in each set than he requested. She helped Danny with the lunch, washing the dishes afterwards. Brian woke after lunch, and when he began dinner, she decided to assist. Perhaps if she got on his good side, her sentence wouldn’t be as severe. He set her to work peeling potatoes and made no reference to the night before.

After dinner, however, he came to her door. “Sullivan’s rented a video. I’d like you to watch it with us. Das
Boot
.”

“Another war movie?”

“JJ, it’s important.”

At first she couldn’t figure out why he wanted her to see it. It began with scenes of German officers in a nightclub, some of them drunk and disorderly. Then the action shifted to a submarine, cramped and crowded with many men. Not much was happening on the screen, but Sergeant Casey surprised her by explaining in a matter-of-fact voice how submarines worked and the different duty stations on board.

It was a long movie, and as Casey outlined some of the tactics of submarine warfare, the similarities between their situation and hers began to dawn on her. The submarine sailors missed their families. They were confined. They were safe as long as their location was not discovered. There were long periods of waiting—endless monotony—broken by moments of intense terror. Pressure could kill them. It was, at times, a psychological war.

There were differences, too. The sailors never bathed. Their hair grew long, and their beards looked unkempt. Sergeant Casey’s baths had been frightening, but he had made sure she was clean. The three men whose eyes were glued to the television were neat and clean shaven. The living room was much larger than anyone’s space in the U-boat, even the captain’s. The submariners’ danger was greater. The enemy—the Allies, she thought wryly—could be anywhere in that vast ocean. The Germans would have very little warning of an attack. She knew she was in danger, but there were safeguards and alarms, and she
didn’t feel that an attack was imminent. There was way more than the thin skin of a submarine protecting her, and she didn’t have to worry about depth charges or fires.

At the movie’s end, the German sailors thought they were safe, but gunfire cut them down. Their crumpled bodies bled on the wharf. She hadn’t wanted them to die, and they were just characters in a story. She really didn’t want these policemen to die, these flesh-and-blood men who kept continual watch over her. They hadn’t jumped ship when they’d had the chance. They were willing to endure the dull days.

Danny gave her a pat on the shoulder and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. “I’d like a word with her,” Brian told Casey, who left without inquiring why.

She had underestimated him. Das
Boot
—Das
Brian
. Sergeant Casey would have yelled at her, and he would have been justified. Brian had found a gentle way to drive his point home. “I learned a lot tonight,” she said. “Those men were responsible for each other. They depended on each other for their safety.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“When the monster got hold of me, I thought I was going to die. I should know better than to endanger anyone else, particularly people I care about.”

He waited.

“I’ve been selfish and immature. I wasn’t always like this, Brian—but there’s a price on my head.”

“JJ, you can come to me when you’re afraid. To any of us.”

How could she tell him that in spite of his best efforts, the fear never left her? The monster had plucked her from a public street and fractured her future. Dr. Knowles had said that memory and reality weren’t the same, but they hurt the same, and it didn’t stop. “It’s still hard for me to do that,” she admitted.

“Then we’ll come to you.” He took her hand.

“You can tell Sergeant Casey if you want to,” she said shakily.

“There’s no need.” He already had, of course, but he did not say so.

That was one blessing, and another was that this incredible hulk was on
her
side.

S
inclair found no evidence of a special meal when he visited the flat on Thanksgiving. “No celebration?” he asked Jenny. “Isn’t this a holiday in the States?”

“The Pilgrims had fled religious persecution in England,” she said. “They were starving, and the local Indians fed them, so we usually honor the event by being thankful we can overeat. I wasn’t in the mood today.”

“Did you speak with your family?”

“With my brothers. My mom’s still cooking. BJ’s a sophomore in college and worried about finals and completing research papers. Matt’s younger—a junior in high school. His soccer team made it to the championship game before losing. They played in a downpour, but rain or no rain, if I were in Texas, I’d have been there.”

Sinclair heard the wistful tone.

“They wanted to know what it was like living with three policemen. I didn’t tell them how it felt to be under surveillance all the time. I described some of Brian’s more exotic recipes, like bubble and squeak.” She liked the fried combination of leftover meat, potatoes, and vegetables as long as Brian didn’t put Brussels sprouts in it. “And Matt said that by tonight they’d all be replete. Isn’t that a great word? My mother used to teach me one new vocabulary word each week, and now BJ and Matt are her victims.”

“And your father taught you quotations.”

“Yes, he’d often leave a clipping at my place at the breakfast table. That was his not-so-subtle way of telling me I should learn it.” She smiled. “Colin, you’re wearing yet another tie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the same one twice.”

He was a bit flattered that she noticed.

“And your cufflinks match. I didn’t know men cared about such things.”

“All day I deal with vulgar crimes and the depraved people who commit them. I need a reminder sometimes that beautiful things exist.”

“I do, too,” she said. “I’ve been reading the book you lent me on Churchill, and I’ve made a terrible discovery: The only thing I have in common with that great man is depression! I should probably read
poetry instead.”

“T.S. Eliot, perhaps?”

“
The Wasteland?
No, that’s depressing too. Maybe one of your pastoral poets. They paint pictures with words of landscapes I can’t see.”

“A field’s worth of words,” he quipped.

“Wordsworth,” she laughed. “One of the British ‘big six.’ He was aptly named! I also studied the romantic poets in school—they wrote about landscapes of the heart—but that’s hard to think about now. Let’s create a new genre: medical poetry. I could use some healing words.”

Prayer can heal, he thought. I’ll bring her a book of prayers.

J
enny was finally asleep. It had been a difficult evening for her, Casey reflected, beginning with the news report they’d seen just before dinner. Another bail application had been made on Scott’s behalf by his defence team, and his picture had appeared on the TV screen as the announcer delivered the details. She had fainted, then awakened shaky and distraught with no appetite for Davies’ meal. After dinner she’d been alternately tearful and withdrawn, expressing her fear of seeing Scott in court—“What if I faint then, too?”—and her worry that they’d all be angry if she couldn’t do what was expected of her.

Sinclair’s news had been disturbing as well, and it had contributed to her distress. It was the boss’ procedure to censor what she heard, but she had come into the sitting room during his report. She knew now that someone was offering a thousand quid for information about unusual police presence in any London area hotel. “Scott’s on the wrong track,” Sinclair had told her, but she had not been reassured.

Casey thought about the team. The more specialised his military training had become, the smaller the unit with which he was associated. That was one of the things he liked about the current arrangement. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, and they knew his, enabling them to cover for each other and make the team stronger than any single individual. Davies was solid and well trained. Sullivan had less experience, but he was clever, creative, and confident.

He’d told Sinclair some time ago that Jenny was suffering from combat stress. Bridges had called it rape trauma, but many of the symptoms he’d been taught to identify in soldiers, he saw in her. She was tense, jumpy. She had difficulty sleeping and was often fatigued. She experienced depression, and there were times she withdrew. She was far too introspective. Anyone who examined himself too closely came up short, and she always had her yardstick out.

The incidence of combat fatigue had been lower in the special forces than in the regular military ranks. In less extreme cases a man often regained his calm because those around him were calm. What made the difference? Training, of course. He had gone into combat prepared for what he would encounter, knowing that return fire was a strong
possibility if not a certainty. His rules of engagement had been clear: Assess the odds and do whatever is necessary to tip them in your favour. And do it quickly to reduce the risk to yourself and others.

The attack on Jenny had been unexpected. There had been no rules. Scott had intended to murder her after he tortured her sufficiently to satisfy himself. Her statement had given no indication of the duration, but a beating that severe—and the sexual assault that followed it—could have taken an extended period of time. The crime scene was isolated. There was no danger of detection. He had not had to hurry. Bloody bastard.

It was not his practice to discuss his military experiences, even the nonclassified ones. Consequently she didn’t know that he had been about her age when he was deployed for the first time. He had been inexperienced and far from home, but he had performed effectively when called upon because he had been trained. And the training that had qualified him for specialised service had been even more valuable.

He thought about some of the men with whom he had served. They had been intelligent, able to achieve intense mental focus. They were physically fit, understanding that the body had to be capable of responding to demanding circumstances. They were willing to push themselves beyond pain and fear. Knowledge and self-control were factors: It took the combination of the two to apply training appropriately. Understanding how their mission fit into the larger picture had given them an edge. And a sense of humour had been essential. Sullivan wasn’t as crude as many of his mates had been, at least not in front of Jenny, but his playful personality had helped.

She was the wrong size and sex for soldiering, but surprisingly she possessed most of the characteristics he had just brought to mind. She was clever, resourceful, and motivated. Her injuries had healed, and she participated willingly in the exercises he devised. Physically she would be ready. She knew how important her testimony was in convicting Scott of his crimes. Her sense of humour indicated an inner resilience. Her overall lack of confidence, her reaction to psychological triggers, and her lack of training were her biggest drawbacks.