What You Did

by Claire McGowan

  They were very kind. I even knew the DC, who’d come to give a talk to the women at the refuge a few months ago. It was hard to say who was more embarrassed, him or me. They were good at handling the situation. I’d expected, I don’t know – some kind of brutish denial that Karen could possibly have been attacked, here with her friends. Instead they took her away, efficient and serious. There was a sexual assault centre in Maidstone, I knew. I remembered writing something about the new centres, never imagining they’d fall within the sphere of my own life. They’d be doing tests and taking swabs and . . . my mind failed. It kept trying to grasp what had happened, and feeling it slip away. After a brief statement, I saw them lead her out, from where I still sat on the decking, and I tried to go with her. She was my best friend. Of course I had to go. ‘Wait! She’ll need someone with her.’

  Karen’s eyes grazed mine, frightened, wide. ‘Not her!’ Her voice was hoarse. I reeled back as if I’d been slapped.

  Bill was there, quietly helpful, gathering his jacket. ‘I’ll go. If that’s OK.’

  She bit her lip, reaching out an arm for him. There was a murmured discussion among the officers, and it seemed to be agreed that Bill could go if he didn’t discuss the case with Karen. He was a witness; we all were. I wondered what he’d said on the phone, if he’d repeated Karen’s allegation. I watched, shivering, as they went down the drive – the lawn had been taped off, a crime scene – an officer holding Karen up like someone who’d been in a terrible accident. There was still a smear of blood on her thigh, red against the white of her skin. I felt the loss of Bill, and remembered it had always been that way, that his presence was a balm, making any situation bearable, calm, friendly.

  That was a while ago. I’d lost my sense of time, but I knew it was light outside, so a few hours had passed since what happened. We were in the living room now, the DC and me, and I was shaking with cold and shock, thinking about wrapping myself in the blue wool throw on the back of the sofa, wondering if that might look bad. Like I was selfish, only thinking of myself. ‘Will she be OK? Karen? What will happen now?’

  He didn’t answer. ‘Tell me in your own words what happened, Mrs Morris.’ How old was he? In his twenties, I was sure. When he blushed, his neck turned red. I couldn’t remember his name, though he’d told me.

  ‘Well, I went to bed, and then I woke up and came down for water, and then she – Karen – she came in and said . . . what she said. That he . . . But, God, he really couldn’t have. He’s not like that, not at all.’

  He made a note on his little pad and for a moment I felt like tearing it away, seeing what he’d written about me. ‘How long have you known Ms Rampling?’

  ‘Oh, God, it’s twenty-five years. We were just talking about it. Earlier. We’re friends, you see. All of us.’

  ‘And you were all at university, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, the . . . the six of us.’

  ‘And your children are also here.’ He made it sound wrong somehow.

  ‘Yes, Cassie, she’s fifteen, Benji’s ten. And Jake, he’s Karen’s son. He’s eighteen. Almost.’ I was trying to be as helpful as I could, in the hope of persuading him to believe me, that we were decent people. That Mike would never do anything like this.

  He was still writing. ‘And Jake’s father . . . ?’

  ‘We don’t know who he is. She wouldn’t ever say. I’m not sure she knows, you know. She was a bit wild back then, but . . .’ I realised what I’d said. About my friend. Who had accused someone of rape.

  Who had accused my husband of rape. ‘Where is he?’ I said, sounding wild myself. ‘Where’s Mike?’

  ‘We’ve taken your husband to the station – he’s been arrested.’

  They’d be doing tests on him too. Scraping under his nails, combing his pubic hair, swabbing his cheek for DNA.

  ‘You said you woke up.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I blinked.

  ‘You’d gone to bed, but you woke up. Do you know why?’

  ‘Oh . . . no. I just did. So I went for water. I usually take some to bed, but I forgot. Maybe it was Jodi who woke me.’

  ‘That’s . . . Mrs Mackintosh?’

  ‘Yes. Well, she prefers her own name. Seiffert. She was making coffee. She’s pregnant, you see, so she wakes up easily. She said Callum – her husband – was passed out on the sofa.’

  ‘And your children were in bed?’

  No, Cassie was out in the garden, her bare legs flashing, dirt from the woods on her feet. What was she doing there? ‘Mine were. Jake – he was in my husband’s office, I think. Over the garage.’ Had Karen really left him there until after three? My head hurt, trying to process all this, keep track of who had been where.

  ‘So when you went up to bed, your husband, Ms Rampling and Mr Mackintosh were in the garden still?’

  ‘And Bill. Bill Anwar, our other friend.’ I thought of the spliffs Bill had in his tin. The booze. Oh God. My throat felt as dry as the leaves in the bonfire pile behind the shed. ‘But he must have gone to bed too, he came downstairs when she . . . I don’t understand how this can have happened,’ I tried. ‘Karen and Mike . . . they’ve been friends for years. Maybe . . . I mean maybe someone got into the garden. Someone else.’ My mind was rushing ahead. Was it possible, in the dark and drunk, not to realise which man was attacking you? ‘He couldn’t have done this. I swear. He’s not that kind of person, truly he isn’t.’

  He didn’t say anything at first, but then he said: ‘I understand you’re Chair of the local Women’s Refuge, Mrs Morris?’

  Meaning: of course you can be raped by a friend. In fact, you’re more likely to be. I knew this. I’d thrown those stats like so many hand grenades. But Mike? Again I tried to grasp at it, like an acrobat flying through the sky, gripping empty air. There was just no way. I knew bad men, and he wasn’t one. ‘What will happen?’ I said dully.

  ‘Well, we’ll run some tests, and we’ll question Ms Rampling and your husband. If charges are going to be pressed, there will be a magistrates’ hearing, probably on Monday or Tuesday.’

  ‘Will he get bail?’

  His face, which I’d formerly found so kind and open, was unreadable. ‘That’s not our decision, Mrs Morris.’

  Did people get bail for something like this? I thought of the bruises round Karen’s neck, the inky bloom of them. Mike? No, never. Mike had never raised a hand to anyone in his life, I was sure of that. He always joked that, being shorter, he had to get by on his wits, not his fists. Then I thought of Jake, running at Mike, the anger in him. ‘Where’s Jake?’ I asked. ‘Karen, Ms Rampling’s son, I mean. He’ll be so tired, I don’t think he got any sleep last night. There’s plenty of room, he doesn’t have to stay in that stupid tent . . .’

  ‘Mrs Morris,’ he said. He had that combination of gentle and firm. I thought he’d go far, in the force, Detective whatever his name was. ‘I think it’s wise if Jake stays somewhere else tonight. We’ll find him a place.’

  It was in that moment I realised what had happened to us. I’d considered Jake and Karen as part of our family, but now the lines were drawn. It was them versus us. I thought of Karen’s white, horrified face, and my heart squeezed. But Mike. No, just no.

  His phone rang. With an apologetic glance at me, he answered. ‘Right. Right. Right. I see, yes.’ I waited, staring at the carpet in the living room. Someone had walked in grass, crushed and oozing, and it made me think of the stains on Karen’s face, the leaves in her hair. As if her face had been pushed down into the lawn. He hung up. ‘I’m afraid there’s news from the examination. There’s evidence of semen, as well as signs of force.’

  I gasped. But semen didn’t mean . . . it didn’t have to mean . . . ‘I need to speak to him. Mike. Please. I’m allowed to speak to him, aren’t I?’ I’d get him to look me right in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t true, and maybe then this fear that was eating its way up my legs would calm, and I’d be able to help Karen, be there for her like a best friend should. Was it wrong
of me to ask? Did it look like I was taking sides?

  ‘You could take him some clothes to the station. It’s possible you might be able to speak to him, if it wasn’t about the case.’ His face had shut down. I remembered meeting him before, how friendly he’d been, telling me about his mum and how he looked after her. Adam, that was his name, I remembered now. DC Adam Devine. An Irish name, though I guessed at least one of his parents was black. Unusual in this whitewashed, wealthy town. Now he was looking at me as if I was what I felt like – a criminal.

  Chapter Seven

  Mike looked like shit. He probably hadn’t slept much beyond what he’d got passed out on that swing seat, which could only have been a few minutes. I couldn’t get it straight in my head, him doing that to Karen then staggering over to the seat, sitting down cosily and falling asleep. It just couldn’t be true. They had him in the interview room, wearing a sort of cheap grey tracksuit. I imagined they’d had to take his clothes to test them. I’d be allowed to speak to him for five minutes, the duty sergeant said. He made it sound like they were doing me a kindness, because of who and what I was, and I believed it. It was amazing to me how quickly they could commandeer your life. Make it so you couldn’t leave, couldn’t eat, couldn’t go to the loo, couldn’t see your wife without their say-so. It was the same station where I had been, just hours before, a respected member of the community. It gave me whiplash, the speed with which things had changed. How could this be happening?

  I pushed open the door to the dingy, bare-floored room, and Mike raised his head. I saw how red his eyes were, the shadow of stubble on his chin. His face looked creased. We were too old to drink all night. Too old for any of this. My arms were full of the clothes I’d brought, soft button-less things, as if he was ill. They’d searched them for anything sharp, any laces. Anything he could hurt himself with.

  I wondered where Karen was. What they were doing to her.

  ‘Hey.’ Mike could barely look at me.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve been charged.’

  ‘Oh.’ I knew that wasn’t good. They didn’t do that unless they thought there was a case. ‘Did you – have you eaten?’

  ‘They gave me food and stuff, a place to lie down . . . but I couldn’t sleep. I mean, how could I? This is mad.’

  A rush of relief under my ribs. He was denying it. He didn’t do it, of course he didn’t. ‘What the hell happened?’ I felt more able to ask that question now. I’d been told not to, but unless they had the room bugged, they wouldn’t know. Was that even possible? I didn’t know.

  ‘I don’t even know. We were drinking. Way too much, I know. I must have gone to the seat and fallen asleep. That’s all I can remember. Bill had some weed – really strong stuff. I’m not used to it. I guess I blacked out a bit.’

  ‘Blacked out or passed out?’ Because those were very different things. Passed out, you couldn’t do anything. Blacked out, you were still moving around, functioning. You just didn’t remember.

  ‘I . . .’ He shrugged again. ‘It’s all a blur.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sat down, feeling how cold the plastic chair was. They must have had the air conditioning up high, which would have been fine during the hot day, but it was now seven on Sunday morning and my arms were goose-bumped. I hadn’t thought to put anything on over the floral dress I’d pulled from the chair in our room before the police came. I could smell my unshowered body, exuding a sour alcoholic reek.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Mike asked. I shook my head. No need to ask who he meant. ‘I swear, Ali, I . . . I would never do something like that. Never in my life. Even when we were young. I never, never have and never would. Hurt a woman.’ I felt a surge of relief, but then something clicked and Martha Rasby’s face was in my mind. But no. That had nothing to do with this. Mike was gentle, considerate. He’d never hurt me, never slapped the kids even once.

  ‘Why would she say it?’ We were whispering, as if afraid they were listening. They might be listening. They might have the whole room wired, for all I knew. Would I get into trouble, talking to him about it? He’d been charged already. That meant they’d taken all our statements, Karen’s and Mike’s too, and concluded he’d done it.

  ‘I’ve no idea. She was really pissed. We all were.’

  ‘She had bruises, Mike. All round her neck. I saw them.’ I thought of the blood sliding down Karen’s thigh, that small drop, and I shuddered.

  He frowned. ‘She did?’

  ‘Bad ones. Someone – it looked like someone choked her.’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘Is it possible someone came into the garden? You know, it was dark, she was so drunk. Bill had gone to bed already. Where was Callum?’

  ‘Passed out on the couch. He looked like he was out cold.’

  ‘So maybe someone did come in. From the lane, you know. Or even through the woods. No security cameras that way.’

  I thought about Cassie. Would she have seen something? And what was she doing out there? I took a deep breath. ‘I . . . I know you’d never do a thing like this. But you need to tell me everything. Is there any reason you can think of that Karen would say it was you?’

  Mike looked down at his hands. I saw there was a scratch on one. I also saw that he had something to say to me, and I ran cold all over. ‘I . . . Please believe me, Al, I would never tell you this now, not like this. But I think it will come out. I think maybe they’ll be able to . . . So I better. Oh Christ.’

  I said nothing. Cold was trickling down me, all the hairs on my body raised from the air conditioning and sheer dread. For the second time that night I wanted to turn back time, run away from this moment, stop up my ears and close my eyes. Don’t say it, Mike. I knew that, as soon as he said the words, our lives as they currently were would be over. But also that there was no choice. No choice at all. Because here we were in the police station and Karen was saying he’d raped her.

  ‘Karen and me . . . but it was just once, I swear to you. I regretted it right away. That might be why. She might want to punish me or something, you know how she is about rejection, so . . .’

  ‘You’re saying you and Karen . . .’ Don’t. Don’t go there. Rewind. ‘You were having an affair?’

  ‘Not an affair, Ali! Not that. Just one time, I swear. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  I understood what he was telling me, even if my brain pushed it away. I understood it all the way up from my feet. ‘You had sex? When?’

  A long silence. I already knew.

  ‘Yesterday? While I was out?’

  ‘We hadn’t seen each other for such a long time. I don’t know why it happened. She just – came on to me, and it happened. I’m so sorry, Ali.’

  ‘In our house? In our bed?’

  ‘In the – in my office.’

  Karen’s hesitation when I’d suggested Jake go up there. Mike, wanting to shower before dinner, even though there wasn’t time.

  ‘With our children there? And Jake too?’

  Nod. ‘They were – they didn’t know. I swear.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘I know. I know, Ali! I just . . . I couldn’t help it. I swear, it was all her, she threw herself at me. I told her it could never happen again.’ So that was why she arrived so early, why they were both so happy to see me off to my meeting. Everything fell into place so neatly. I reached out and clutched the cheap table, the plastic picked away to show the fake wood beneath.

  ‘Why now? When you’ve been friends for, bloody hell, twenty-five years?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Tell me, Mike. Why would you sleep with her now?’

  His voice was low. ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘Changed?’

  ‘For years you were so . . . content. The kids, the house. You didn’t need anything else. But lately it’s like you’re just so angry all the time. This feminism stuff. I guess I’ve felt like . . . you were angry at me.’

  I gaped at him. The words coming out
of his mouth made no sense to me.

  ‘I know this is shit,’ he said. ‘I know it. But what she’s saying, I could go to jail. We’d lose the house. I could be in there years – rape? That’s a life sentence . . . But I didn’t do it, Al. I don’t know, she could have made those marks herself, to get back at me. Or maybe she made a mistake, maybe she’s not well or, Christ, I don’t know. Please, help me. I’ve fucked up but I’m not a criminal. Tell them I’d never do something like this. Please! Tell them – I don’t know, tell them you saw me go to sleep or something, you looked out the window . . .’

  I was trembling. The words were in my mouth before I knew it. ‘This is just like Martha, isn’t it.’

  He recoiled. ‘It’s nothing like that. That was just – Christ, Ali!’

  ‘You asked me to lie then, too.’

  ‘It wasn’t a lie!’

  It was all so familiar. The gritty-eyed feeling of being up all night, dawn landing on us like a bucket of cold water. A woman – a girl, really – who hadn’t made it through the night unscathed. Except by the time the sun came up that day, Martha Rasby was dead.

  ‘Tell me this isn’t the same.’

  ‘What the hell are you saying, Ali? That was – some stranger who got in. I just – it was bad luck! Wrong place wrong time!’

  ‘And this is a stranger too?’

  ‘It has to be. What else could it be? Ali, please!’

  The door was opening. Our time was up. I stood, as if in a daze. As I walked out the door he was shouting after me, ‘Do it for the kids, if not for me! Do it for Cassie and Benj!’

  1996

  My back was burning. I could feel it starting, the tingle on my pale skin, and knew I should have brought sunblock. It was so expensive though, and with only days to the end of term, money was tight. I shifted, trying to find a patch of shade on the lawn of the quad. Beside me, Karen, who’d been face down on the grass in tiny shorts and a vest, reared up on one elbow. ‘You’re turning red, Al.’