A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  The colour drained from her face and she looked at me with an expression I would never forget. ‘Oh dear lord,’ she whispered. ‘That boy raped you. That Treadway boy … he … he forced himself on you?’ She came over to the bed now and picked up my hand. ‘We need to go to the police. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this sooner.’

  ‘Mum, I—’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I knew there was something strange about him. I knew it. I’m not going to let him get away with it. I won’t.’

  She started muttering away to herself about the kind of vengeance she’d wreak on George Treadway, clearly more concerned about being victorious in the pursuit of punishment than the wellbeing of her daughter. ‘Mum,’ I said quietly. ‘Please, Mum, stop. It wasn’t him.’

  She looked at me, clearly baffled. ‘What do you mean, it wasn’t him? You just said he was the father.’

  I shook my head. ‘Mum, George and I had … we had sex. Consensual sex. At Christmas when you and Dad left me here. He’s harmless.’

  ‘Then who …?’

  I stared at my hands for almost a full minute, then started to speak. I told her everything. I described the whole evening to her. How we’d started playing a drinking game, how I’d been a bit tipsy and gone a bit overboard. How I’d followed the three boys back to my room and it had got out of control. They had taken advantage of me and attacked me. Once I’d finished I finally lifted my gaze from my fingernails and looked her in the face. I couldn’t quite see it at first, since she was turned towards the wardrobe, not looking at me. Then she finally leant in my direction.

  ‘You say one of them’s the son of Clive Kelman?’ She spoke evenly with barely any emotion, quite differently to when she’d been fantasising about George’s incarceration.

  ‘Yes. His name is Ernest Kelman.’

  She didn’t say anything for a bit, then asked another question. ‘Do you get drunk like that regularly?’

  A steady sense of dread started to creep down my shoulders. ‘No … but, what’s that—’

  ‘And do you regularly have sex with … with multiple participants of an evening?’

  Her strange and archaic turn of phrase would have made me laugh under different circumstances, but the full horror of what she was saying was sinking in. ‘I’ve never had sex with more than one “participant”. As if that really matters.’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ she said scathingly. ‘The thought of my little girl off cavorting, playing sex games and having drunken orgies, not to mention dropping her knickers for any random lout that comes knocking.’

  I cried into the top of my duvet and she let me. She didn’t offer a hand to comfort me. She didn’t even look at me. ‘Please, Mum, I’m telling the truth.’

  I saw that she, too, was crying, but silently, without sobs, the tears just running down. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘You stupid, stupid girl. Do you know what they’ll say? If we take this to the police and accuse an MP’s son and his mates of improper behaviour? Do you know how it makes you look?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said firmly. ‘It was rape. It was assault. Doesn’t that bother you?’

  She stood up now. ‘If every woman who did something regrettable after getting drunk cried rape … God, the thought of you taking those three men back to your room. I thought I’d raised you to respect yourself.’

  ‘Christ, you’ll have to give me a rundown sometime as to how you did that, because I can’t really remember you raising me at all! And so what if I had taken them back to my room to have sex with them. With all of them. Me and all those boys, in a bed together, fucking the night away!’ She flinched visibly at the word ‘fucking’, but I didn’t stop. ‘If we were all happy about it, there would be nothing wrong at all. But I wasn’t happy with it. They carried on and I didn’t want them to. And that’s never acceptable.’

  She stood up and again started walking away, only this time I doubted she’d be back. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got these ideas from, Holly, or who’s put all this stuff into your head, but the world doesn’t work that way. Actions have consequences.’

  I felt hatred towards her in that moment. Pure, full-blooded hatred. ‘Are you saying I asked for it? That I deserved it?’

  She looked back at me as if I were some strange, vaguely disgusting animal who had wandered uninvited into her clinically clean house. ‘Get dressed,’ she said coldly. ‘We need to tell your father about the baby. Just the baby. Nothing more.’ With that, she left the room.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, wiping my nose on my hand. ‘We haven’t discussed the other option. I could have an abortion.’

  I really did think then that she was going to faint, but she held on tight to the door to steady herself. Her biting words came seconds later.

  ‘I really don’t think we need to add that to your list of sins.’ Then she left.

  Ten minutes later, on my way back from the bathroom after giving in to my morning sickness, I heard her crying properly, too, in her bedroom. I didn’t feel pity towards her, just a strained sense of numbness, like my emotions had been overworked to the point of losing feeling.

  The conversation with Dad was one of the most awkward of my life, but on the whole he handled it a bit better than Mum did. He just stayed silent through most of the explanation, then afterwards simply said: ‘It’s a shame we sold your old cot and pushchair when we realised we couldn’t have any more. We’ll have to see about getting some new stuff for you.’ My love for him increased a little when he said that, but I wasn’t in a position to show it. We weren’t really a hugging family, so I just sat there on the sofa while Mum tried not to cry, eventually walking away to clatter about in the kitchen, making an early lunch that nobody wanted.

  The thing I really found hard to deal with as I made my way back to my bedroom, ready to sink myself into the Ruth Rendell novel I was in the middle of, was the thought of the endless years stretching ahead of me. Would this be it now? Me, them and a baby who would grow up shaped by the same cold, colourless existence? I got back into bed and opened my book. No, I thought to myself. I wouldn’t let it be so. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was convinced I wouldn’t let this situation beat me. I wasn’t going to be ‘the victim’, ‘the teenage mum’, ‘the Oxford drop-out’ for the rest of my life. I didn’t know at that point exactly what course of action I’d choose, but the small seed of determination sown within me became like a life-raft to cling to in the years to come. It was a reminder that I could decide what defined me, not other people, my parents, my circumstances. It gave me hope that there was more than this.

  Chapter 24

  Julianne

  Knightsbridge, 2019

  The Christmas tree lights are blurry, as if viewed through water. As my vision clears, I realise my eyes are filled with tears. I reach up to rub them and feel my hands brush against the soft cotton of a cushion. I’m on the sofa, stretched out, as if I’ve been sleeping. Have I been asleep? What time is it? I try to look over at the clock on the mantelpiece but I see Ernest first. He’s standing there, in front of the fire. It’s burning in its grate. Someone must have lit it while I was out.

  ‘Nice of you to return, Julianne.’

  Ernest is talking at me in that infuriatingly superior voice, while standing in my lounge as if he owns the place. If I didn’t feel so nauseous I’d throw something at him. ‘Jesus,’ I moan, while trying to sit up, but then feel sick again and lie back down.

  ‘He isn’t in attendance, I’m afraid. Your husband is, however.’

  I look over at the single-seat sofa near the TV. James is sitting there, his demeanour more or less identical to when he was at the table; hunched over and looking like he’s been drained of blood.

  ‘Where’s Stephen?’ I ask. The voice feels thick, my mouth dry and leathery.

  ‘Your housekeeper has taken him in a car to your mother’s. She said you’d asked her to. He was rather upset.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, briefly wondering what Stephe
n will say to my mom. ‘Is this where you both kill me or something?’

  ‘Hilarious, Julianne,’ Ernest says, sounding rather irritable. ‘But this isn’t a Lifetime movie.’

  I manage to pull myself up into a sitting position, breathing slowly. ‘You watch many Lifetime movies, Ernest? Wouldn’t have thought they were your style.’

  He gives a low chuckle. ‘It’s sometimes better if I don’t object to Louise’s viewing choices. I can’t bear the fuss.’

  ‘I bet you’re a hoot on a Sunday night,’ I say, rubbing my face. ‘So what happens now? I’m still going to the police, you know. To be honest, I’m just waiting for you to leave my house.’

  ‘I’m going home in a moment. I just want to make certain of a few things before I do.’ He walks over to James and sits next to him. ‘My silent friend here has been reduced to this trembling mess because he knows what could happen if things get too … hot, shall we say.’

  ‘He raped Holly Rowe. I know that now. He’s pathetic. He’s going to prison.’

  ‘You’ve known it for a long time, Julianne.’

  I feel a jolt inside me when he says this. I tell myself to calm down and shake my head slowly. ‘No. It wasn’t like that. It isn’t like that …’

  ‘You’ve kept quiet for over twenty years because you didn’t want your chance at the high life to end in ruins.’

  ‘No,’ I say forcefully. ‘You covered it up and you’re trying to pin it on me.’

  ‘How did I cover it up, Julianne?’

  ‘I don’t know. You must have threatened her or something.’

  ‘You’re grasping at thin air.’

  He is right, but at the same time I’m not put off. He is taunting me and I am desperate to get back in control. Get the information I need. With great effort, I try to remember that night, that room, that awful feeling of dread I had as I saw her lying there. Did I know what I was seeing then? What was it about that room that really didn’t sit right? A detail I’ve pushed right to the back of my mind where it can’t hurt me? I look at Ernest and narrow my eyes. His leg brushes against James’s, causing him to flinch a little, as if from a loud noise. Then it drops in. The image just falls into my mind, as if it has been as clear as day all along.

  ‘You weren’t wearing any trousers.’

  His expression remains impassive. ‘What?’

  ‘You were sleeping there, in the room. You and Peter.’

  ‘I know, Julianne. And we woke up to find you sitting, holding Holly’s hand.’

  ‘Yes, and you weren’t wearing any pants. No trousers or underwear. I remember now. You had your shirt on, but nothing else. And Peter was naked, I think.’

  ‘Are you saying this like it’s some kind of eureka revelation? What do you think it’s proving?’

  I sink back into the sofa. I am trembling now and feel like I’m going to pass out again as the full horror of the situation comes into focus. But there is another part of me that feels strengthened by the terrible, terrible realisation, because at last the true evil of the situation is becoming plain.

  ‘You gang-raped her. All three of you. Didn’t you?’

  Ernest is watching me closely, then looks over at James. He shakes his head. ‘Good lord, James. I do believe your wife is actually as stupid as you suggested.’

  To my surprise, my husband finally speaks. ‘Please, can you just stop and … can you not … I really don’t think it’s necessary … I think it would be better if …’

  Even in my state of distress, I find watching him embarrassing. This is so much the complete opposite of his character; it’s like I’m watching a performing animal doing something weird, something unnatural, something against their innermost instincts. He’s spouting stock phrases, the kind he would have used to defuse the odd spat between Stephen and I or if we’d had a minor row.

  Ernest doesn’t seem very impressed either. Smirking, he turns back to me. ‘Ask your husband, Julianne, what he said when he came running to me, saying you’d woken up too early. Ask him.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not fucking speaking to him. I’ll never speak to him again.’

  ‘That isn’t very helpful now, is it?’ Ernest sighs. ‘When I came to and found you sitting there with the girl, I needed to assess the situation quickly. I didn’t want to discuss the situation with you before I’d had the chance to talk to James. I found him sobbing in his bed, under the sheets. He said you’d woken up too early and he’d tried to feed you some bullshit about it being consensual. Apparently he had convinced you. I questioned at first how likely this was, but I was fairly certain I had the measure of you by that point. All those expensive clothes he’d bought for you. All those gifts. It’s amazing what sins a woman can excuse when you give her a taste of luxury …’

  ‘If you think for one second I would have—’

  ‘I did think exactly that. I knew you and your mother had been living on something of a shoestring ever since coming over to the UK. And I knew James was your chance to escape the poverty your family was sinking into. But it seems I was wrong. It seems you were actually even more stupid than I expected.’

  I look at James. I had been half-convinced never looking at or speaking to him again would be the best course of action, but I find I can’t keep it up. ‘I was in love with you. So much,’ I say, tears slipping from my eyes. ‘I believed you. I …’ I break off, at a loss for words. James takes one look at me, his eyes red and raw and full of pain, then stares back at the floor.

  Ernest clears his throat. I am growing tired of listening to him, acting as if he is my husband’s spokesperson or defence lawyer, but I don’t seem to have much choice. It is as if James’s power of speech has left him completely. ‘James and I have a slight … quirk. Our appetites are different to most men’s. We desire something stronger. Normal sex isn’t enough to satisfy us. Ally’s right – we did dabble in homosexuality, and the taboo nature of it at the time satisfied us to an extent. But it wasn’t enough.’

  His words remind me of what he said about Stephen earlier and I wince. ‘There’s nothing taboo about gay sex,’ I say firmly.

  Ernest rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, don’t start on that. It’s abnormal, an inversion. I’m tired of the overly polite rhetoric surrounding it.’

  ‘Bit rich from someone who confesses to fucking his male best friend,’ I spit at him, my fury returning.

  ‘Yes, but don’t you see? That was precisely the point. We were doing something abnormal. Something that went against the natural order of things. Two heterosexual men aren’t naturally supposed to do that to each other, so for us it had the allure of the forbidden I think we both craved. James, I think, invested slightly more emotion in it than I did. Eventually, however, it stalled. It wasn’t enough. We both knew it, and talked extensively about what we wanted to do – what we would truly want to do, if there were nothing stopping us, nothing in our way.’

  James twitches at this. ‘Don’t tell her any more.’

  His words startle me, as if he has spoken a foreign language. He’s said it to the ground, clearly unwilling to look either of us in the eye.

  ‘My dear fellow, don’t you think Julianne’s heard too much already? Do you really think it’s going to do any real damage her hearing the rest of it? She won’t tell a soul. I can guarantee that.’

  I shake my head. ‘You can’t guarantee that. Because I’m going to tell everyone.’

  Ernest smirks. ‘So you keep saying. I promise you, if you’re still in any doubt about remaining silent by the time I’m finished, we will address your concerns in full.’

  ‘Address my concerns?’ I almost shout it, but Ernest holds up a hand to stop me.

  ‘As I was saying, before I was interrupted – we had come to the end of our little liaison, James and I. Peter was actually the one who suggested Holly Rowe as our first … er … conquest.’

  Conquest. The word sickens me. I want to interrupt, but he sweeps on.

  ‘He was never quite as daring as Ja
mes and I. Liked to watch more than take part, I think. But I was impressed at his choice and, as it turned out, Holly worked out rather beautifully. That is, of course, until you woke up earlier than planned.’

  I look at him quickly. ‘Than planned?’ I repeat, realising what he is suggesting.

  ‘You were drugged, Julianne. I know you’re a bit of a lightweight when it comes to drink, but you hadn’t drunk that much. It worked to a point. You and my sister were completely out of it when we took Holly back to her room.’

  I shake my head. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Ernest just shrugs. ‘It’s your carpet,’ he says simply. He pauses to fiddle with one of the ornaments on the Christmas tree, looping its string round so it is stuck tighter to the branch. I wait for him to speak, but my mind quickly flashes to my time on Oxford Street yesterday. The desperate face that confronted me. The pleading voice, begging me to talk to her. The years and years of suffering she must have endured, contending with memories nobody should have to face.

  ‘What happened to Holly Rowe?’

  When I mention Holly’s name, Ernest’s expression changes for a second. He looks troubled. He comes away from the Christmas tree and instead runs his hand along the mantelpiece, as if checking for dust. ‘She’s under observation.’

  ‘Observation?’

  ‘Yes. I check up on her now and again. She works at a domestic-violence refuge in Northern Ireland. Don’t worry, she’s not like one of those destitute, drug-addled prostitutes you seem to care so much about. I set up an account with an anonymous standing order twenty years ago and sent her the details, but she’s never touched the money. There’s over three hundred thousand pounds in that account now and not a penny of it has been withdrawn. I’m sure you’ll probably work that into some kind of feminist victory.’

  He pauses, as if waiting for me to retort, but I just wait for him to continue.

  ‘She has a child. A girl. A woman now, of course. She, too, works at the refuge.’ He sees my expression change and raises a hand. ‘Keep calm. She’s not James’s child, or mine. She was born a little too early for that. She discovered she was pregnant shortly after leaving Oxford. It seems she’d had unprotected sex a bit before we … had our little bit of night-time fun.’