The Girl in His Eyes

by Jennie Ensor

  ‘Mum, brace yourself,’ Daniel had greeted her when she answered the phone. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Can you guess?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me.’ He’s going to work overseas, or he’s in trouble with the police. Which scenario would be worse, she wasn’t sure. ‘Have you got another promotion?’

  ‘Karen and I have got engaged. We’re going to get married.’

  ‘Married?’ It was the last thing she’d expected.

  ‘You know – a wedding, in a church.’

  ‘Daniel! I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t realise. I’m so happy for you, darling.’

  ‘I know I’m young, we both are. But I love Karen. I want us to have kids together.’

  ‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’

  To her relief he had laughed for about a minute, and the conversation turned to his wedding plans – it would have to be the end of summer, probably, or there wouldn’t be enough time to organise the event. She avoided saying what was in her head – that the end of summer was only a few months away and he was quite young to be getting married, that it would be better to wait and get some experience of life first. There was plenty of time for that conversation.

  But afterwards, she tried to reconcile her son’s planned marriage with the mischievous, irresponsible Daniel she’d always known. He had never talked of love. He’d always seemed disinterested in marriage, joking about older work colleagues who had succumbed to children and resented losing their former carefree lives. She’d always pictured him marrying in his thirties, after he’d had time to accumulate property, status and experience. Not at twenty-four, in his first job, to his first serious girlfriend. Then again, if he were willing to give up his freedom to marry the woman he loved, how could she argue with that? He’d known Karen longer than she’d known Paul when they got married.

  She sighed. If she’d known Paul for several years, long enough to see all aspects of him, would she still have married him? A wistfulness drifted over her. She got up and walked across the lawn, her shoes sinking into the dew-soaked grass. Every blade had been daubed in a glossy overcoat, except where a trail of dark paw prints led across the lawn. She scanned the rockery and the patio wall, half expecting to see a familiar flash of fur. But Marmaduke wasn’t in any of his usual places. No doubt he was hanging out with Toby, next-door’s noisy Siamese.

  At the beech tree, she stopped and looked up to the tree house. The rope ladder hung down limply, its lower end frayed. Paul had built it for the children, years ago. Back then, it was the perfect hideaway, for Laura especially. She loved going up there and having tea parties with her dolls, and when she was older, she spent long summer days up there with a book or sketchpad, deaf to all pleas to come down.

  Suzanne walked past the apple trees to the end of the lawn. The grass was long and straggly underfoot. She took a large step to avoid the half-consumed remains of a bird – Marmaduke’s doing, no doubt – and reached the semi-circular platform backing on to the fence, below an overhanging horse chestnut. Worn steps led up to a statue of a mermaid. Her tail was flecked with moss. The structure was draped in shadow, apart from a shaft of sunlight that tickled the mermaid’s back. There was something mysterious about this part of the garden, the way it was shielded by trees on all sides as if it had been purposefully hidden. A breeze stirred in the leaves above, putting goose pimples on her arms. She turned and walked towards the house, past the banks of rhododendron. Time was getting on.

  It was lying in wait for her – a hideous spider web stretched across the path, glinting in the sunshine. A collection of insects squirmed on silky threads. She stopped mid-step, a bleat of distress emerging from her mouth. One more inch and the thing would have wrapped itself around her face. She tore off a woody stem from the bush beside her and thrashed at the web until it was a white tangle at the end of her stick.

  The phone was ringing, she realised, and had been for some time. She tossed down the stick and ran inside.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Suzanne. It’s me, Jane.’

  She panted into the phone. ‘Hi, Jane, I was in the garden. Did you get my message? I left it yesterday.’

  No answer. A surge of irritation.

  ‘Are you phoning from work?’

  ‘No, I’ve taken the day off.’ Jane’s tone was oddly flat. ‘There’s something I have to talk to you about, Suzanne.’

  She went over to the kitchen table and sat down. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Paul. I’ve got something to tell you.’ Jane cleared her throat.

  Her body went cold. Normally Jane would just come straight out with it. Were Paul and Jane having an affair after all? No, it wasn’t that. Somehow, she knew this would be about Emma.

  ‘Emma slept through her alarm again. I tried to get her up this morning and she said she wanted to stay in bed, she wasn’t up to going to school. Her breath smelt bad – she admitted she’s been taking my sleeping pills. I’d noticed a packet was missing but I thought I must have made a mistake.’

  Her mind raced. How was this about Paul?

  ‘Why is she taking your pills? Why are you telling me this? I don’t understand.’

  ‘She didn’t want to tell me at first. But I said I wasn’t going to leave the room until she did.’

  ‘So, what was it? What was the matter?’

  Silence at the other end.

  ‘She told me what happened. The day Paul took her swimming for the last time.’

  Her breaths were coming faster and shallower; she couldn’t suck up enough air. This was turning into a childish guessing game. Only she knew it wasn’t a game.

  ‘What happened, Jane?’

  ‘Did he tell you he brought her back to your house afterwards?’

  Somewhere inside her head, a dull roar began.

  ‘Yes, I knew about that. Paul said they came out of the pool early, so he asked if she’d like to come back here to watch a film.’

  ‘Emma told me that after they’d watched the film, Paul took some photos of her.’

  ‘I know.’ Why couldn’t her friend get to the point? ‘She asked him to take some photographs of her, to help her get into modelling. I saw one a few days ago, that’s why I called—’

  ‘It was his idea.’ Anger transformed Jane’s voice. Quieter than normal, the words precisely enunciated, leaving pointed gaps between each word. Jane had never spoken to her like this before. ‘It was just his ploy to get her to take her clothes off. He said he knew someone in an agency, and he could take some photos to help her get in. She’s an impressionable girl and he knew it. He worked out exactly what he had to do to get her where he wanted her.’ Jane’s voice began to tremble. ‘He told her he had to get pictures of her in her underwear, or the agency wouldn’t be interested.’ A pause. ‘And did he tell you what else he did?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Suzanne gripped the handset, her breath sucked out of her. What did Jane mean, ‘what else he did’?

  Jane carried on.

  ‘I really don’t know what induced her do it. She sat beside him, wearing next to nothing. He promised he would only look. But he …’ Jane’s voice cut off then resumed with grim determination, the tremble more obvious now. ‘He stuck his fingers into her. He wouldn’t let her go. And then he put his fucking prick inside her. My beautiful, innocent daughter, who’s never been with anyone. He was too strong, too heavy, she tried to stop him but she couldn’t get him off her. She had to lie there while he did his vile business.’

  Jane’s voice collapsed. Only a stretched-out, sibilant sound. A hiss, not quite a wail. Then only breathing, the ragged, clutching breaths of pure grief.

  The strange roar filled her head again. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.

  Jane’s voice reappeared, its strength back.

  ‘You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you? He violated my little girl and she’ll never be the same again.’

  Suzanne listened to a sound from
outside in the garden – the thin, repetitive note of a bird. She was unable to think, let alone speak.

  ‘He made her promise not to tell anyone. He threatened her. Emma said she wanted to tell me that day but she thought I’d blame her for what happened. She blamed herself for letting him take the photographs – she thought she’d encouraged him, that somehow, what he did was her fault. She believed all the nonsense he told her.’ A snort of contempt. ‘She was even scared I’d be angry with her.’

  Jane’s words bobbed up and down inside her head like drunks who couldn’t find their way home. He put his fucking prick inside her …

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said at last. ‘Paul couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Suzanne, it’s not a nice thing to have to tell someone.’ Jane’s voice was breaking up. ‘But it’s not a nice thing to have your daughter tell you she’s been molested and raped by your friend’s husband. How could he have done that? She’s only twelve, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘It is true – don’t you think I’d know when my own daughter is telling the truth?’ Jane’s voice blasted in her ear. ‘Do you think she would make up something like that?’

  ‘I just can’t believe Paul could have done a thing like that.’

  She felt sick, as if she’d just been forced to eat a large carton of chocolate ice cream in one go. This couldn’t be right. Someone was playing a terrible trick on her.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Jane said, in a mocking tone. ‘He knows what he did to my daughter. Ask him to tell you all about it.’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this face to face? I’ll drive over now.’

  A sneering little chuckle. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, actually. Our friendship is over, don’t you get it? And I swear, if your husband comes near me or my daughter ever again, I’ll kill him with my own hands. He’s a disgusting pervert—’

  ‘Jane, don’t—’

  ‘He should be locked up so he can’t molest anyone else. I’m going to report him to the police so he gets the punishment he deserves.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong.’

  The phone buzzed in her ear.

  Suzanne poured out half a tumbler of Gordon’s. She drank it neat, holding on to the worktop to steady herself. The liquid numbed her tongue and burned her throat. She drank the rest then sat at the kitchen table. A shudder went through her. It seemed to pass through her skin and carry on, into her blood and bone, going deeper and deeper, until it became a repugnant, evil thing, slithering inside her. She shut her eyes.

  Oh God. How could such a thing be true? Surely, such a frightful thing could not have happened.

  A yellow wedge of sunlight slanted in through the window. Outside, a bird piped cheerfully as if everything was normal, and Marmaduke was meowing at the back door.

  Paul’s key turned in the lock. With the words she had selected earlier, Suzanne went toward the door. Fear had been working on her body all afternoon, turning her insides to a pulp. She stopped in the hall, a few feet away from him. He put down his laptop case and took off his jacket.

  ‘Jane phoned this morning,’ she said. ‘She’s accused you of something, something very serious. It’s to do with Emma.’

  He froze, his hand outstretched, about to drop his jacket over the banister. He turned to her, his eyes black and shiny as a crow’s. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Emma says you assaulted her. That day she came over here, after you took her swimming.’ Without replying, he put down his jacket and walked into the kitchen. She followed him. He was rinsing his hands under the tap as if he hadn’t heard her. She forced herself to say the rest. ‘She said you touched her, inside. Her vagina. And then you … you forced yourself on her.’

  He snapped his head towards her, leaving water pouring from the tap.

  ‘Is it true, Paul? Tell me, is it true? Did you have sex with that girl? Did you rape her?’

  She held on to the kitchen table. Bile erupted into her throat. He looked at her, his face unreadable, then he turned off the tap, walked casually to the other side of the table, and took off his tie.

  ‘She’s lying, Suzanne.’ His tone was resigned. He undid the top button of his shirt. ‘Emma was angry with me so she’s gone and made up this story. It’s her revenge. But it defies belief that she could come up with something as twisted as this.’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Sit down. I’ll tell you what really happened.’

  She did so. Paul sat down in the chair opposite her. He seemed calm, not at all surprised. Then he sighed heavily.

  ‘I was taking the photos, as I told you. I was kneeling on the sofa to get the best shots. She had all her clothes on, there was nothing untoward. Then she gave me a weird smile and said she was going to take her clothes off for the next one, she wanted me to take one of her in just her underwear. I said no, she shouldn’t do that, but she took them off anyway. I put the camera down and said “Photo session’s over, please put your top back on”. That seemed to greatly upset her. All of a sudden, she came over and kissed me.’

  Suzanne stared at him.

  ‘It was some kiss, she put her tongue right into my mouth. I was shocked, I pushed her away and asked what the hell she was doing. She laughed. I guess I lost it – I slapped her face, hard, and called her a little brat. She started crying hysterically, it took her ages to stop. Afterwards, she said she was sorry. She begged me not to tell anyone, not even you. She said she’d die if her mother found out.’

  She tried to make sense of it. Emma had kissed Paul? How could that be? Finally, she found her voice.

  ‘I don’t understand, Paul. If that’s what happened, why didn’t you tell me before? Even if you couldn’t have told Jane, you could have told me. I’m your wife. I don’t understand how something like that could happen and you didn’t tell me. You told me you’d taken photographs of Emma, but you said nothing about any of this.’

  Paul leaned towards her. His knuckles stood out white against the tan of his hand.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do, Suzanne. I didn’t have the heart to tell on her. That’s why I didn’t say anything about it to you – I thought you’d feel you should pass it on to Jane. I didn’t want to upset Emma any more than she was already.’ He sighed. ‘It was a mistake, I guess.’

  So, Emma really had tried to come on to her husband, just as she’d imagined? Or was everything he’d told her simply a story he’d made up?

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ His eyes fixed on hers. ‘I know I should have told you before, now it’s blown up into this goddamn mess. The only reason I didn’t was to protect Emma.’

  ‘Why would she kiss you? Did she fancy you?’

  ‘I think she had some sort of girlish crush on me, yes. But I didn’t realise, not till later. Once, when we were driving to the pool, I said something about her hair looking good and I thought it was strange how pleased she was. And there were a few other things.’ He sighed again. ‘I think you were right, Suze. It wasn’t just Emma posing in that photo, trying to look like a model. She wanted me to respond to her as a man. I knew her head was muddled, that she always wanted me to notice her, but I truly had no idea of the extent of it. When I told her to put her clothes back on, she looked so terribly hurt. She kissed me, because she wanted to make me kiss her back.’

  It was possible, wasn’t it? Suzanne thought about what she knew of Emma. The girl hadn’t been doing very well at school for some time, lacking in confidence and self-esteem, according to Jane. After her father had left, she started getting into trouble with the teachers, and playing up at home. Her own impression of Emma – formed years earlier – was a girl, hungry for attention, who yearned to be liked and admired.

  ‘Did you send the photograph to Emma?’

  ‘What?’ He frowned.

  ‘You told me you were going to send it to her.’

  He
stroked his jaw, looking thoughtful. ‘I decided it would be better not to, in the circumstances. I thought it best if she wasn’t reminded of that afternoon.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘Suze. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Did she believe him? Or did she believe that her husband was a child molester? What sort of choice was that?

  He stood and pulled her head onto his chest, running his fingers through her hair. Her vision blurred; she closed her eyes.

  ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t believe me. I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Paul, I want to believe you. But I don’t know if I can.’ Her words sounded distant, as if they’d come from a woman in another house, another city, another world. How could she be saying these things?

  ‘Suze, I love you. I couldn’t possibly do what Emma’s accused me of – not ever. You know I couldn’t have.’ He stepped away from her. ‘I could never do anything like that. You have to believe me.’

  She was silent. She was trapped between two opposing forces: doubt, and the urge to believe. It was intolerable. One had to give way.

  ‘Please, my love. I’m Paul, your husband, the man who loves you. Do you really think I could do something like that?’ His eyes implored her. Finally, weary of the struggle, she nodded.

  ‘Alright. I believe you.’ Her voice was low, scarcely there.

  He looked at her, saying nothing. His Adam’s apple moved as he gave the slightest nod.

  ‘Jane says she doesn’t want to see either of us again,’ she said. ‘She says if you come near Emma again, she’ll kill you.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No, she was almost hysterical on the phone. She believes Emma. She might report you to the police.’

  ‘That’s crazy, absolutely crazy.’ He turned away. ‘I’ll call her right now and tell her the truth.’

  She went into the hall after a minute or so and listened through the door to Paul talking in the office. She couldn’t make out most of his words. He wasn’t getting angry, or raising his voice; he sounded eloquent yet insistent, as he had when he’d persuaded the phone company to refund the cost of the broadband service because it hadn’t been working for three days. She sat in the living room and waited for him.