Untouchable (2 page)

‘Stop.’ A slight gasp in Gerald’s voice tells me I’m in danger of going too far.

I sit upright, offering him a languid smile. ‘Too much?’

‘Nice,’ he says, his eyes not quite meeting mine, ‘but maybe a bit too nice.’

‘Let’s take a breather.’ I glance at the travel clock on his bedside table. Still half an hour to go.

Three years in the business and I’ve learnt that pace is everything. It’s not rocket science. You’re working on roughly one ejaculation an hour for most guys over thirty – any more is too much effort, and puts you at risk of going over time; any less and, well, you can forget that repeat business.

But Gerald clearly has other ideas. ‘Come here.’ He beckons me back up the bed. I fold myself into his outstretched arm. He reaches over and caresses my breast as I trace a line down his belly with my forefinger and curl my hand around his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze of encouragement. I don’t want him wilting on me.

Premature ejaculation and a flaccid penis – Scylla and Charybdis, the rock and the hard place. The two hazards every working girl has to navigate.

Twisting round, I grab the condom from beside the clock. Rip the foil with my teeth, checking it over briefly before unfurling it over him. It’s tight, the rubber extending only two-thirds of the way up his shaft and pinching a bit at the top. It’ll have to do – Boots were all out of large.

I sit up and straddle him, lowering myself on to his erection. Gerald closes his eyes as he eases into me, slowly, firmly, lifting his hips to meet my downward thrust. I toss out a few responsive noises, until Gerald stops moving. He pulls out and removes the condom, then pushes me on my back and thrusts his cock in my mouth. A few jerks and he shudders into stillness. I swallow fast, but the hot, saline tang of his semen scalds my taste buds and I fight the urge to grimace.

‘Well …’ Gerald says as I wipe my lips with my fingers. ‘That was fun.’

‘Mmmm.’ I try to sound appreciative.

Gerald sinks back into the pillow. His face is impassive, his mouth a half-smile.

‘So tell me, Stella,’ His tone deeper now, more relaxed. His gaze cool. Assessing. ‘Does your boyfriend mind?’

‘Mind what?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You doing this.’

I eye him steadily. ‘Does your wife?’

Gerald’s left eyelid twitches. Slowly, stiffly, his lips contract, then he looks away. He’s up and off the bed before I can even think how to excuse myself. Wrapping himself in a dressing gown, he retrieves his jacket and hands me the envelope with a tight expression.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking this as a dismissal. I dress quickly, silently. Gerald stands with his back to me, pretending to examine something outside the window. Turns only as I head for the door. His cheeks are flushed and I can’t tell if it’s from the sex or my verbal indiscretion.

‘A word of advice, Stella.’ His voice has a hint of quaver, there’s a tension in his expression as he speaks. ‘When you manage thirty years of marriage, you get to judge, OK?’

I nod, genuinely abashed. Let myself out the door.

Neither of us bothers with goodbye.

Pressing the button for the lift, I dig in my bag for my inhaler. Release a blast of salbutamol deep into my throat. My chest feels hot and tight. I want to get out of here, into the fresh air, find the nearest bar or café. Get something to chase away the taste of Gerald, of this whole inglorious episode.

What the hell happened back there, I ask myself as I will the lift to arrive. I never used to be so touchy. I let the crap clients said wash right over me, just deleted it in my head, like so much junk mail.

Another minute passes. I press the button again. Wonder if I should take the stairs. At that moment the lift doors slide open. I dart in, too fast to see the woman exiting. We collide awkwardly, and I drop my bag.

Half a dozen little foil packets spill on to the floor.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasps, though it was conspicuously my fault.

‘No, no. It was me.’ I stoop down to grab the condoms. Praying she hadn’t time to register what they are.

‘These elevators you have over here,’ she says, in a distinctly American accent. ‘They’re so small. It does take some getting used to.’

I stand to see a middle-aged woman, a Hobbs carrier in one hand, a dry-cleaning bag containing a man’s suit in the other. My cheeks start to burn. My hand trembles as I fumble with the clasp on my handbag. I force myself to look at her face, worn, plump, but amiable. Kind.

Giving me the benefit of the doubt.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I jab the button for the ground floor. ‘All of it. Entirely my fault.’

Her smile is warm. ‘Don’t worry, dear. These things happen.’ The lift door closes between us, sparing me the sight of her walking away.

But not the sinking, certain feeling that I know exactly where she’s heading.

3

Friday, 23 January

I’m halfway through my Murakami novel when the phone rings, its shrill sound filling the tiny room. I answer the call, giving the name of the centre.

No response.

I repeat the name. This time it’s followed by a muffled sob.

‘I’m listening,’ I say. ‘I won’t hang up. I’ll wait until you’re ready.’

No reply. I let a minute pass. I can’t make out much, only the occasional sniff, and start to wonder if it’s another prank call. You wouldn’t believe how many people think it’s funny to ring up a rape crisis centre and jerk us around. And not only bored kids – plenty of so-called ‘adult’ males.

‘Do you want to talk?’ I ask. ‘I don’t mind. I’m happy to stay here if you just need somebody on the end of the line.’

A voice clears its throat. I’m fairly sure it’s female.

‘I don’t know what to say.’ She’s barely audible, but I can hear she’s young. Probably a fair bit younger than me.

‘How about you start by telling me what happened?’

A wet, snivelling noise, followed by a long, low howl. ‘He … he … oh God, I can’t.’

A click, then the dial tone.

I put down the phone and rest my elbows on the desk. Glance up at the clock. Forty minutes to go before Stacy arrives to take over. It’s a Friday night – generally our busiest time – and we try to keep the lines open till midnight. We’d keep them open longer if we could get the funding.

Through the glass in the door I see Mel, one of the outreach workers, mime drinking a cup of tea. I give her a thumbs-up just as the phone rings again.

‘Sorry,’ a voice says on the other end of the line. Hers.

‘No need to be.’

‘I just … I feel so …’ She goes silent.

‘Embarrassed? It’s hard to talk about something so personal, isn’t it?’

She clears her throat again. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to tell me your name? Your first name. It’s good to know what I should call you.’

‘Andrea.’

‘Thank you, Andrea. And my name is Grace. How about I ask you some questions? You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.’

‘OK,’ she says uncertainly.

‘Did this happen recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask how long ago?’

She coughs. ‘I’m not sure exactly. A few hours.’

‘And you’re alone now?’

‘Yes. They’ve gone.’

They
. I swallow. ‘So you’re safe then. No one can get back in?’

‘Only my flatmate, but she’s on holiday. She’s not home till Sunday.’

‘I see. Andrea, can I ask you if you’ve got any injuries?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Cuts, bruises. Perhaps a bump on the head. If so, you should go to A&E straight away. If you think you need to, I can call an ambulance.’

She coughs. ‘No, I’m all right.’

‘You’re not bleeding anywhere?’

‘No … I don’t think so.’ She starts crying again. A whimpering sound like an animal in pain.

I let her continue for a moment, then ask: ‘Andrea, do you feel strong enough to tell me what’s gone on?’

‘OK,’ she gurgles, and coughs again.

‘In your own time. No pressure.’

A sigh, like her breath collapsing. ‘There were two of them.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘Yes. Well, no, not really. One of them is called Michael. I don’t remember the other one’s name.’

Michael
. Something ignites inside me, a curl of dread and dismay. The desire for a cigarette blooms and I have to crush it before I can speak. ‘How do you know him?’

From the café, she tells me, across from the travel agency where she works. He asked her out when she called in for her morning coffee, suggesting a drink in a local pub. It went all right, she says. His mate joined them briefly, then disappeared.

‘I made my excuses after an hour or so, and he asked if we could do it again. I said maybe and left it at that. I could tell he was disappointed, but to be honest, I just wasn’t that into him. I didn’t think …’

She stops. I hear her inhale, then release it slowly. Imagine her heart racing as she remembers. One of the first things you learn as a psychologist is that processing memories and feelings is the primary treatment for any trauma.

But that doesn’t make it easy.

‘He must have followed me home,’ Andrea continues. ‘About five minutes after I got back the doorbell rang and it was him. He wanted to come in, but I said no. He asked, why not? Was anyone else there? But he knew there wasn’t. He knew my flatmate Dana was on holiday because I’d told him …’

She sniffs, followed by the sound of her blowing her nose. She’s crying again. Mel lets herself in silently and places a mug of tea on my desk, along with a chipped china plate topped with a couple of chocolate biscuits.

‘How could I have been so stupid?’ Andrea’s voice is full of self-reproach. ‘I’d said I’d got Dana this really cheap deal to Crete and he’d asked when she was getting back and I told him. I didn’t think anything about it.’

Forethought, I realize, making a note. Premeditation.
Michael, you cunning little fuck.

‘Then he pushed his way through the door and he … the other one … was suddenly there behind him. And … and …’ Her voice breaks off. That wounded noise again.

‘And they raped you,’ I say. ‘Forced you to have sex.’

It isn’t a question. More a statement of fact.

‘Yes,’ she sobs. ‘Michael first, then him. Twice.’

Michael. Even hearing that name makes me want to vomit. The coincidence of it. And despite myself I’m picturing
his
face.
Him
attacking this girl. Though I know it can’t be. That Michael is still inside.

I take a deep breath, place the pen down on the pad and pull myself together. ‘Andrea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen, honey. I’d like to suggest a couple of options, but you don’t have to do either if you don’t want to. I recommend you go to the one of the sexual assault referral centres. I don’t know where you live and you don’t have to tell me, but I can give you some addresses or a link to their websites. They can check you’re not hurt and can do a forensic assessment, if you’re undecided about going to the police.’

I pause, but she doesn’t speak.

‘Or you can go straight to your local police station. Is there anybody who could go with you?’

A long sigh at the end of the line. ‘What’s the point?’ says her voice. ‘We both know what will happen.’

‘The police are obliged to …’

‘They’ll say I invited them, that I consented. There’ll be witnesses to us all drinking together in the pub.’

‘Andrea, we can’t be sure that––’

‘Yes, we can,’ she cuts in. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve read how hard it is to get a conviction. I wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d make me look like a slut, like I asked for it.’

I open my mouth to object, then change my mind. Because the fact is she’s right – and I know better than anybody how right she is.

‘I only wanted to talk,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to take this any further. I just needed someone to know the truth.’

Andrea starts crying again, heavy, resigned sobs. And I think of those two men, and wonder where they are right now. If they have any real sense of what they’ve done.

Then I wonder whether they’ve done it before – or will again.

A rush of heat. Of anger. I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

‘OK, Andrea, I understand. But think it over, will you? You could go and get the forensics done and then decide.’ I try to keep my tone calm and measured.

‘It’s too late,’ she says miserably. ‘I’ve washed myself, my hair, down there … everything. And put all the sheets in the washing machine.’ A pause. ‘I’d throw them away, but they’re not mine. They took me into Dana’s room.’

I suppress a groan. Wonder if she’ll tell her flatmate when she gets back from Greece, or remake the bed so it looks like nothing ever happened. I get a picture of Andrea, sitting alone in her flat, the phone in her hand, and my heart aches for her.

I lift my gaze from the desk to stare at the bare walls of Consultation Room Two. We never use this place for face-to-face work, so there’s little to alleviate the starkness, save a cork noticeboard studded with ageing council notices and a list of referral numbers.

‘Is there anybody you could ask over, Andrea? A friend? Family?’

Another pause. ‘I think I’d rather be on my own.’

Then I’m certain. She won’t tell anyone. For the rest of her life and mine, I’ll be the only other person who knows what happened in that flat this evening. She’ll bury it inside and let it fester, until her whole world is poisoned by what seeps out.

I squeeze my forehead with my left hand, pinching the skin above my nose until it hurts. I have no more advice. And no more questions.

Just a prayer she’ll somehow be spared.

‘Grace,’ she says suddenly. ‘That’s a lovely name.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Like in the hymn,’ she sniffs. ‘I always loved that one.’

‘Me too.’

‘Grace, I have to go now.’ A sigh. Resigned and heavy. ‘Thank you for listening. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.’

‘It’s what I’m here—’

A click on the end of the line.

4