by Sam Hayes
‘Flora!’ I yelled, even though I knew it was futile. Perhaps the vibrations of her name would send her scurrying from her hiding place. My search gathered momentum, and soon every single stowage space had been ransacked. I even shone the torch down into the engine compartment. I made a mental note to run the bilge pump when Flora turned up. There was more water in the hull than ever.
‘OK, buddy. We’d better go and look on the bank. She must have followed you outside.’
‘Probably,’ Alex admitted. ‘Although I told her to stay in here.’ He touched my arm ever so lightly, and for a second I thought that it was Flora creeping up from behind. ‘She’ll be all right, won’t she, Dad?’
‘Of course,’ I said. My mouth was so dry that the words came out flat.
MARY
The groundsman found me in his hut. I was lying in a cone of sunshine, vomit and blood. The difference between consciousness and what lay beyond was unfathomable, although I had been passing between both for hours.
‘Sweet Mother of God.’ He loomed over me, making me stiffen with fear. ‘What happened here? What happened to you, lass?’ A rough hand touched my cheek with the lightness of a leaf.
I flinched and stared up at him. The tongue in my mouth was a swollen cut of meat. It pressed painfully on my teeth, allowing only the tiniest space for air to pass through the back of my throat. Swallowing was impossible. And the soles of my feet, paddling in pools of blood, burned with the grooves that I knew had been carved into them. I couldn’t speak or flee. I was an animal in shock, waiting for this man to assault me or save me. I didn’t care which, as long as the pain could end.
When they arrived, the police were puzzled. They stared down at me, asking me questions I couldn’t answer. An ambulance crew was summoned, and after a great deal of gawping and pondering, chatting with the groundsman and Mr Boseley-Greene about how such a terrible thing could have happened at his daughter’s wedding, they finally carted me off to hospital.
I was an inconvenience, an embarrassing remnant of an otherwise perfect day, and until I was in the ambulance and wrapped in a rough wool blanket, I had remained naked and bloody. The suffering went on as if David had carefully orchestrated all this misery; all my life of misery.
In hospital, answering the detective’s questions was impossible. I couldn’t speak. Memories were a road accident in my mind; an evening exploded into incomprehensible fragments of delight, pain and terror. And because of the drugs, I was still peering through fogged glass. Nothing was visible; nothing was real.
I told the police what had happened by jotting down broken sentences, barely legible scrawl, on to a small notepad. If I filled every page, there wouldn’t be enough space to tell them the truth.
‘Rape, Miss Marshall, is a very serious allegation. And at a wedding? The young man you are accusing is particularly upset by what happened to you. He went to the police station voluntarily when he was informed what had happened. Are you sure you have got your facts right?’ The worn-out detective watched a pretty nurse walk down the ward, more interested in her starched white uniform and neat, long-legged steps than he was in taking a statement from me.
I stared at him from my hospital bed. He had no idea how I was feeling. I wanted to tear myself inside out, set fire to my remains. I hated myself. I hated what David had done to me. The concept of trust, of friendship – of a future – had been destroyed.
I picked up the pencil and wrote again. No one had asked about my injuries. I screwed up my eyes as I handed the page to the detective. I could still feel David’s knife cold against my skin.
‘He attacked you with a knife?’
At last, a glimmer of interest. I’d been in hospital three hours and no one had asked where my wounds had come from.
My legs were suddenly exposed as the detective stood and whipped back the sheet. ‘The doctor mentioned lacerations to the lower limbs. Nasty.’ Then he peeled apart my lips and gawped into my mouth before shying away.
He did this to me, I scribbled, underlining ‘he’, and handed the paper over.
‘Assault is an entirely different matter, miss. Will you please confirm that you are claiming that Mr David Carlyle assaulted you with a knife?’
Yes.Yes. And I underlined it again. Wasn’t the rape enough? I wanted to add, but the detective pocketed the paper. He sighed, weary, and started to leave.
‘Did you have too much to drink, Miss Marshall? Were you leading the young gentleman on? Free love and all that. Young people of today, it’s a tragedy.’
Wait, I scribbled on a fresh sheet. It’s the truth. Believe me. My hand shook as I wrote. I held up the pad. He didn’t look.
‘The nurses will take it from here, Miss Marshall.’ He smoothed out his uniform. ‘A word of advice. Perhaps stick to Coca-Cola next time.’ The wink, the fat lips squashing into a doubtful, semi-formed leer stayed with me for ever.
Murray tells me I am not ill. He watches me as I stare out over the lake, my eyes settling on the surface of the green water as if there are secrets submerged that only I know. He’s right, of course.
‘Mary, what was it that scared you into silence?’ He takes hold of my hands. The first warmth I’ve felt in ages. I want to tell him everything – what David did to me – so he can rescue his wife and children. But for Julia to know the truth would cause irreparable damage. It should have been said decades ago; I should never have kept quiet. It’s too late now.
A heavy blink takes the place of any useful reply. As much as I need to speak, I can’t. My entire life is jammed in my throat.
Help me, Murray, I scream in my head. Save your family from this man, from the truth. I can’t stand it that David has walked free a second time.
I turn back to the lake and see the nurse returning. Panic fills me. I try so hard to open my mouth, to muster some words, a noise, anything. But I am only capable of deafening silence.
Someone has to stop him, Murray. I beg my son-in-law to hear me. Because this time, he’s come back for Julia.
The trial was a mix of journalists, nausea and confusion. My parents took the same place in the public gallery every day and watched stoically as my life was dissected like a cadaver in front of a judge and jury. I couldn’t bring myself to look at David as he sat rigid in the dock with an officer attached to his side, but I knew he was there, occasionally flicking his eyes to me. The air was filled with his intelligence, his charisma, the scent of his body, and now the stench of his fear. David didn’t want to go to prison. I was already there.
‘Court rise,’ the usher instructed, and as I stood, I felt dizzy and sick. Although I wasn’t showing yet, I was four months pregnant and the nausea was giving no sign of letting up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ the prosecution lawyer began. ‘Over the coming days, you will be shown comprehensive evidence why this young man, David Carlyle, saw fit to rape the woman he claimed to love.’
There was a theatrical gesture to the dock, and I bowed my head. It had been a wedding. We’d been fooling around, playing games, and it should have been fun, silly, happy. It was meant to be an escape from the life I had into the one I so desperately wanted. Instead, I’d been delivered a future so far removed from anything I’d ever planned, I didn’t feel vaguely like me. I was going to be a mother.
Gerald Kirschner, my barrister – a man as wide as he was tall, with greasy strings of hair criss-crossing his scalp – strode the floor in a pale suit and recounted my sorry tale. He gestured regularly to where I was sitting as he gave the jury their first glimpse of that terrible night. My parents had sold off most of Northmire’s land to pay his fees.
‘On the twenty-fourth of June, the life of this young woman changed for ever. Mary Marshall, an intelligent woman with her whole future ahead, was brutally raped and attacked.’ Kirschner paused, hoping for a couple of gasps or raised eyebrows. He didn’t get any. He wasn’t very good and the jury already looked bored. ‘The man accused of this despicable act is in the courtro
om today, and it is my job to prove to you beyond all reasonable doubt that David Carlyle, supposed friend of the victim, is guilty of this heinous crime.’
He went on, detailing the events of that night in such a monotonous way that even I fancied it as a made-up tale. I spread my hands on my slightly swollen belly just to prove to myself that it was all real, that I hadn’t fabricated the story to get attention. The baby inside me was a product of hate. How would I ever love it?
Shortly after the opening statements, Jonathon was called to the witness box. I felt a pang of regret muddled up with fear as he settled into the small wooden cubicle. What if that first policeman back at the hospital had been right? What if, in my drugged state, I’d offered up my body as fair game? Jonathon would confirm this – my flirting, my clear attraction to both of them as we rowed across the lake, messing about in the hut, the drugs, my nakedness, the dancing.
I was conning myself. David had wanted me for many weeks, and while I’d been there for him as a friend, I’d never been available in any other way. We had been playing mind games, which perhaps I had enjoyed more than him. After all, a starving person is bound to scoff a meal. When it came down to it, perhaps what had happened to me wasn’t rape, rather just plain old sex.
‘Mr Felosie,’ Mr Kirschner addressed Jonathon, ‘can you tell me when you first met Mary Marshall?’ He cleared his throat and withdrew a yellowed cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
‘At the wedding.’ Jonathon replied nervously. He was a far cry from the confident young man I’d met in the summer.
‘You’re going to have to speak up, Mr Felosie, so that the jury can hear you. And please use full names to avoid confusion.’ The judge sounded weary.
‘I first met Mary Marshall at Amelia Boseley-Greene’s wedding.’
‘And who was Miss Marshall with that day?’ Kirschner stood squarely before the witness.
‘She was David Carlyle’s guest.’ His voice settled into an audible volume. So far he sounded believable. So far, everything he had said was correct. Why then was I holding my breath?
‘Can you recall Miss Marshall’s mood at the wedding, Mr Felosie? Was she happy, sad, outgoing—?’
‘Objection,’ David’s lawyer called out. ‘Leading the witness.’
‘Sustained. Be careful, Mr Kirschner. It’s early days and you should know better.’
Gerald Kirschner nodded and dabbed at the sweat on his top lip. ‘Just describe Mary’s mood, please.’
‘She was very shy and introverted when I met her. It was like she didn’t really want to be there. She didn’t know anyone. She seemed overwhelmed and in awe of David and his rowdy friends.’
‘Can you remember who Miss Marshall spent most of her evening with while at the wedding reception?’
Jonathon took his time. He stared at me across the courtroom, recalling that night and how I had clung to David’s side, how I had met his friends for the first time, how I had met him. We made a neat trio – David, Jonathon and me.
‘She spent her time mostly with David Carlyle.’ He swallowed, daring himself a look at David. ‘Mary Marshall stuck to him like glue.’
‘Can you tell me about their previous relationship?’ Kirschner was breathing heavily, as if even the act of standing up while speaking was too much for his body to manage.
‘It had been ages since I’d seen David.’ Jonathon hesitated. ‘But . . .’ Another pause, as if he was unsure ‘. . . but as I left the hut to go back to the party, I saw them kissing by the lake. I assumed they were very close.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And earlier, David confessed to me that he loved her.’
My lungs inflated suddenly and I turned to David. But blank face, square shoulders, he stared straight ahead as if the thought had never occurred to him.
‘Didn’t you find it odd that David had brought Mary to the wedding? It was a society event after all, and Mary was just a café waitress.’
I squirmed and lowered my eyes from the courtroom. Everything I had ever wanted was crushed in an instant. So there had been sex, I told myself. Big deal. It was rough sex, unwanted sex; sex where no meant yes, and yes meant I was a slut. The feeling of self-loathing, the same feeling that had consumed me the moment David pulled from my body, rushed through me again. I’d learned to suppress it, numb myself, although that meant being numb to everything else too. The baby growing inside me was the only reminder. Until now.
‘I suppose it was a bit unusual,’ Jonathon said. ‘David usually socialised with women of a higher . . .’ He glanced at me uncomfortably. ‘Of a different class.’
By then, I didn’t care that Kirschner was blowing apart my case. We’d only met that morning for a brief chat in his private chambers while he sweated his way through several handkerchiefs. ‘So would it be fair to say that David had brought Mary Marshall to the wedding as a . . . novelty?’
‘Objection. Leading again.’
‘Sustained,’ the judge ruled.
‘Let me put it this way then, Mr Felosie,’ Kirschner continued. ‘Is it true that David Carlyle’s friends mocked Miss Marshall because she worked as a waitress? That they took delight in belittling her, as if David Carlyle had brought her along as a joke, a plaything, a toy?’
‘Ob-jection!’ The defence lawyer leapt to his feet, but by then, Jonathon had already said a firm Yes, the single syllable echoing throughout the court.
‘No further questions.’ Gerald Kirschner retreated. My stomach curdled. David’s lawyer was going to crucify me.
Leaving The Lawns is as easy as melting into the walls. My constant observations were reduced to hourly checks when they realised I wasn’t a threat any more, allowing ample opportunity to prise myself from my chair and walk right out of the hospital. I didn’t care much for the food anyway.
The long trek home wears out my soft slippers. I get on with it, briskly, just as I have got on with everything else in life. When I reach the main road, I follow the track beside it to guide me home. It’s surprising, really, who doesn’t notice an old woman wearing a dressing gown and a face of grim determination striding through the night. What choice do I have this time but to put things right myself?
Still speechless, with my voice a million breaths away, I walk into my kitchen. It doesn’t feel like home any more. Strangely, the back door is wide open and there is no sign of Julia, the children or Murray.
I stalk through the cold, dark rooms searching for a familiar face. I am startled by something – a noise, a swish of air through the blackness. Someone moving, someone there. I turn, frozen from fear by the brush of cloth across my cheek. Knowing exactly where it is, I reach for the light switch and illuminate Gradin. He is motionless, like a character from a cartoon strip. We stare at each other, and in a second, I see that his hands are covered in blood.
JULIA
‘Mum,’ I scream with surprise and relief at seeing her. ‘What are you doing at home? Did Flora come here? Have you seen her anywhere?’ The barrage of questions is hedged by hope. I drop to my knees in front of her, praying for her to speak. ‘Just tell me, Mum, have you seen her? She’s gone missing.’
Then the tears come again and my head is level with my mother’s muddy feet. I drop into a puddle of despair. She doesn’t reply, but gets up and wheezes her way around the kitchen as if she’s never seen it before.
‘Mary, stop. Please answer Julia.’ Murray folds my mother into the fireside chair and covers her with a blanket. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing out of hospital, Mary, but Flora has gone missing. She was on my boat and then she was gone. We thought she may have come back here—’
‘Oh Murray, listen to us. There’s no way she’d even walk ten paces in the dark by herself, let alone set off through the countryside at night.’ I’m striding about the room, not knowing what to do with myself. I claw my fingers down the wall. Old plaster and paint splinter under my nails. ‘No, she’s either been taken or drowned. Either way, Murray, our little girl’s gone.’ And finally my pinballin
g comes to a stop when Murray catches me in his arms.
Ed arrives at Northmire with an update. Police headlights arc across the courtyard. I’m perched on the chair beside my mother, shaking, staring at her blankness, wondering if I will ever speak again either. It’s a good way to block out all the pain. Murray called The Lawns to inform them that Mum was safe at home.
‘The dogs haven’t picked up a strong enough trail yet. The handlers thought they were on to something a couple of times, but both petered out in the village. If it is Flora’s trail, then she certainly headed for the village.’ Ed fills us in with the latest.
‘She was looking for you,’ I whisper. With one more ounce of guilt, Murray will collapse.
‘It could be the wrong trail, or it could be that she got into a car. So many people have crossed the path now that anything fresh is long gone.’ Ed is showing the strain. It’s his niece that’s missing.
‘Ed, what are the chances? Be honest with me. She’s your family too.’
He replies without hesitation. ‘Every minute counts. But it’s still early days.’
I sit up, incredulous. ‘I thought search dogs worked miracles. I thought if you gave them a scent, however vague, they’d find someone hundreds of miles away. Why can’t they find Flora?’
‘These dogs are general-purpose dogs. I’ve ordered two specialist dogs for first light, Julia.’ He sighs and just gets on with telling me. ‘One of them is a cadaver dog and an expert at water search. The divers are on their way too. It’s time to scour the river.’ He says this with a note of apology, as if it’s his fault, as if he’s already breaking bad news. As if he’s found a body.
‘How can they search in the water?’ Murray asks. I didn’t realise it, but he’s been holding my hand.
Ed closes his eyes and I know he doesn’t want to answer. ‘The dog will be taken on a boat and will indicate scent on the air to its handler if it picks anything up below the surface of the water.’ He speaks quickly.
