by Sean Thomas
Feeling content, a bit sleepy, Patrick sprawls on his seat. As he does he vaguely notes that he is experiencing his third erection of the evening. Consequently, Patrick leans to Rebecca, and thinks about suggesting they skip the end of the dinner as he’d like at least one more fuck before he dies.
But before Patrick can get his mouth round a suitably sanitised version of this suggestion, everybody seems to sense that it is over. The rabbi has risen and said:
— Shalom
and other people have said:
— Next Year in Jerusalem, Next Year may all be Free!
At this signal, Rebecca hisses come on and grabs Patrick by the hand. Happy and woozy, pleased to be emancipated, Patrick gets up and lets Rebecca pull him down the napkin-strewn length of the dining-room table. Outside, in the huge Jessel hall, Patrick notices there is a cold breeze blowing from somewhere: it comes from the open front door where servants are standing, smoking. Before Patrick has a chance to properly appreciate the black miniskirt and white blouse of the youngest hired waitress standing in the doorway, Rebecca has pulled him up the stairs. At the top of the stairs the two of them turn, and kiss, and laugh; then they both press and open and tumble into Rebecca’s bedroom. There to fall onto the bed. Softly Rebecca falls, like a gamebird despatched by a Burgundy chasseur. Exultant, Patrick snatches at his girlfriend’s exemplary breast, at the same time as he tries to stop the room doing a country dance around his head. Slurred, vinous, red-lipped with tannin, he murmurs:
— That was OK
She looks up at him, says:
— Several hours too long
— No. Really. Judaism is a cool religion
— ShutupandkissmePatch
— Say some poetry first babe
— Fuck me hard as
— Proper poetry
— O love be fed with apples while you may – She leans up and kisses him hungrily – and and feel the sun and … go with royal array
— Yes!
Thinking yes! Patrick looks down at the red and white sweetness of his girlfriend’s soft mouth. Drunk and happy he revels in her gleamy teeth; her little snub nose; her slurring lips; her wine-hot breath; her thick ankles; her dress that is hard to slip off, but so good to slip off.
— Go on go onnn …
She murmurs, he pulls; she says, he undresses; she giggles, he laughs; she recites:
— Oh this man what a meal he made of me
— How does this undo?
— Are you a man, are you Ardent Aardvark?
— What?
— It’s John Fuller; the hook’s at the front
— Go on
— Tie me up!
— Who wrote that?
— Like we did last night
— Babe I can’t find the
— Daddy’s ties!
— What?
— Use his ties, his neckties! Upstairs!!!
— His neckties?
— Mazel tov!
Stepping urgently back into his strides Patrick steps to the door; peeks out, peers. From downstairs he can hear muffled babble; the sounds of diesel-engined taxis, of goodbyes and departures; upstairs he can hear nothing but his pulse rate racing at the thought of Rebecca totally naked and twenty-two and awaiting him in the bedroom behind. So. So. So. Barefoot and Don Juan-ish Patrick skips across the landing. Bare-chested and shirtless he bounds the stairs and goes into the master bedroom. Here he looks at the mirrors, the big furniture, the expensive big perfume bottles. Three soft black cashmere overcoats are lying on an enormous bed. Into the nearest wardrobe Patrick looks, seeks, and smells: he smells French aftershave and old gold watches and clean linen shirts. Beeswax. Leather. Rich man smell. Still-wrapped dry cleaning. Ties!
Taking a fistful of silk ties Patrick stuffs them in his pocket and freezes at a noise: the door is opening!
b?
b!
barefoot, bare-chested, naked and possessionless but for his strides and a pocketful of looted foulards Patrick turns and looks and sees …
nothing.
It was the breeze.
The breeze of April coming through the window!
Quickly Patrick skips, out, down, along, and into the bedroom where Rebecca is on the bed: looking at him. Naked. She is still gloriously naked. Patrick looks at her supine nudity. Tufts of beautiful black pubic hair are daring him to look at them. With a tiny smile Rebecca opens her legs. The black panther snarls; Patrick steps nearer; the ties come out.
— Use the Dolce one
— Like this?
— Yes. Tighter
— Here?
— There!
— Say …
— Oh glory be to God for
— Bec?
— … dappled …
— Bec?
— Shit
O the bitter herbs, O the charred symbolic lamb …
Patrick swallows. Feels like swooning. Thinks.
The door behind has opened. The door has opened and Rebecca’s father is standing at the open door, staring at them. The door has opened and Rebecca’s father is standing at the open door of Rebecca’s bedroom, staring at them; as they lie thwart on the bed, mid-fuck.
Feeling his back turned to fragile cold glass Patrick curses, shuts his eyes; he has stopped licking Rebecca’s pink cunt but he is still squatting with his mouth a few inches from her cunt. Angry, sad, frustrated, bewildered, Patrick senses Rebecca’s dad not moving, just standing in the obloid of light made by the open bedroom doorway. Finally, unable to endure it, feeling like a hyena caught at his carrion, like a miser found gloating over gold bullion, Patrick turns from Rebecca’s glinting cunt and squints and gazes at the silhouetted father in the overlit doorway.
As Patrick does this he computes; he tries to think what Rebecca’s father can see. Can he see his naked daughter lying tied up on the bed? Can he see Patrick’s wilting erection? And can he see the glitter of Patrick’s dried cum on Rebecca’s twitching cold face?
At last, at some signal, for some reason Patrick does not care to figure, Rebecca’s dad walks away. He goes: vacating the bright wide space of the bedroom door. At this wordless departure of her father, Rebecca says nothing. The reigning silence is despotic. Only the bed makes a noise as Patrick shuffles barefoot to the door and closes it, and then turns to look at his girlfriend.
— shit
Rebecca says, again. Patrick looks at her. She regards him. She flexes her left hand, still neck-tied to the bed. Then she says – Scratch my nose?
Dutiful, Patrick leans over; scratches her nose.
Rebecca nods, says thank you. She sighs, and sighs, and looks like she is about to cry.
Then at last she looks down her naked self and says:
— I suppose you’d better untie me
17
The jury is thinking about Rebecca’s cunt. As is the judge, the clerk, and most of the lawyers. As they all think about Rebecca’s cunt, Stefan turns to the female police doctor in the witness box. Stefan pauses. Meanwhile Patrick looks across the court and sees the oldest male juror staring with absolutely rapt attention at the doctor as she prepares to discuss Rebecca’s cunt. Patrick feels turbulently aroused by the idea of everybody in the court considering his ex-girlfriend’s cunt. Her cunt. Her exposed sea creature at low tide. The ground floor of her Venetian palazzo, where she stores her furs and cinnamons. Her cunt!
Stefan is standing; the court is waiting; Patrick is concentrating, concentrating on anything but the idea of the world speculating about his ex-girlfriend’s vagina. Because: it turns him on. The idea of these disinterested people picturing his ex-girlfriend’s privates affords Patrick some weird churning feelings that are not far from arousal.
Patrick sweats at this idea. He squirms. In a white shirt that smells of his mum’s fabric conditioner Patrick sweats and shifts and looks at the fine cloth of his trouser material and tries to stifle all these painfully unwholesome feelings; half successful he shifts in his seat in his elongated w
ooden box in Court Number Eighteen the Old Bailey so as to give his erection more room.
Picking up the doctor’s report, for about the fifth time today, Stefan taps the end of his pen against the big sheaf of A4 paper, and he wafts it in the direction of the police doctor:
— It is true to say, isn’t it, Doctor … – Stefan seems to forget the name for a moment, then seems to remember – Doctor Bradley …
Doctor Bradley shoots a cuff under a sensible blazer. A strangely masculine gesture, or so it appears to Patrick. For the third time this day Patrick wonders if the good doctor is lesbian. That she is a police doctor because she is a sadistic lesbian who enjoys looking at pretty young girls with their knickers down crying.
Patrick stoops his head, listens. Stefan is saying:
— Doctor Bradley … would you say it is true that in most cases of non-consensual sex one would expect to see bruises to the … – Levelly scanning the courtroom – Perineum? The area between the anus and the vagina?
The doctor sort of nods. She takes a professional second to gather her thoughts, then:
— Where there has been resistance … usually
— Yes?
— One might expect to see bruises
— And?
— But not always
— And this – Stefan says, seeming to ignore the doctor – And this bruising would be because the accused … would be trying to gain entry – He taps a pen against the cover of the file – To use the penis as a kind of battering ram?
Doctor Bradley:
— As I said … usually
— Very well – Stefan is sounding authoritative. He puts down the pen and uses the free hand to riffle some pages – But there weren’t such bruises in this case? Were there, Doctor? At least you don’t mention them in this report, do you?
— Perhaps … no
— If you might glance at your report, Doctor Bradley?
The doctor swallows and shakes her head in a small way; she picks up her own copy of her report; she reads on for a moment, does a tiny grimace, then stares expectantly across the court at her interrogator.
Stefan comes in:
— Did you in fact see such bruising in this case?
A pause, a frustrated sigh, Doctor Bradley:
— … No
— No? Would you say not at all, in fact?
— Not … at all
— Thank you – Stefan is flourishing the report again – So when you examined the complainant’s genitals there were in fact none of the bruises we would normally … associate with rape
— Not there … but …
The doctor stalls, Stefan comes back:
— In fact wouldn’t it be true to say that the complainant’s … perineum – The lawyer flashes a glance between the doctor’s report, and the doctor’s lesbian face – Showed all the normal signs we associate with consensual intercourse?
The doctor does a discomfited shrug, then sighs:
— Perhaps
— Thank you – Acting satisfied, Stefan looks down to his junior, his magician’s assistant, who pushes across a sheaf of what seem to be photos – Now, Doctor, if I may take you through some of the photos …
As if reminded of something, Stefan glances at the judge; the judge nods, and says:
— For the jury?
— Yes, Your Honour, please – By Stefan’s side the junior checks a note and whispers upwards to his boss; in turn the defence counsel says loud, and authoritative – We’d like the jury to see photos 3a to 3d … if you will
– Thank you – The judge turns to the clerk, says in a soft voice – Could we …?
The clerk of the court nods. She peers in a big plastic bag, lifts a hand in, and takes out envelopes seemingly full of more photos. From his panelled box Patrick leans to see these photos. As the clerk begins sorting the big slippy photos into a coherent pile, Patrick sees: a glimpse of golden shoulder, a flash of soft white thigh, a bruised and female upper arm. He sees the famous arc of Rebecca’s lovingly scratched back.
Patrick swallows the saliva of lust. These photos of that body he loved so much: these pictures of Rebecca’s wounds: they are a map of his guilt, an atlas of his sins, proof of his butchery, his wickedness, his hopeless masculinity. And they are even now erotic. What chance?
While the photos are sorted, numbered, organised and slowly handed over to the jury – one copy of each for two jurors to share – Patrick slacks his head and gazes remorsefully at the grainy wood panelling of his box. He remembers: when he first saw these photos. When his lawyer brought them in to him on remand in prison. At the time he could hardly bear to look at them: these golden Polaroids of his golden girl. As he’d sat there in the prison visiting room, watching his lawyer go through photos of his girlfriend, naked, beautiful, blonde, young, beaten, Patrick had felt sick, desirous, desperately in love, yet also desperate to take these photos back to his cell …
Patrick clenches a fist, uses the fist to prop a determined chin. Brave and firm-chinned he watches all the courtroom having a lark, a gas, a veritable giggle, as they all pass these jolly photos around the jolly courtroom like they’re shots of someone’s white-water rafting trip. Slow. Calm. Slow. Patrick’s heart does a thing. Sends a nervous signal to his groin. Fast. Slow. Calm.
Calm!
Somewhere in the court they are talking about bruising. Again. The defence counsel and the doctor are arguing over the exact extent of bruising evidenced in each shot. During the exchange, Patrick tries to remember the exact amount of bruising he occasioned that last time he loved Rebecca, the last time he had his fist up her. How much do, can, should these photos really show? Can they show the noises, the words, the love? Do they show the way she deeply breathed his name, the way she yawned with pleasure, the way she turned dark liquid eyes on him and murmured harder, harder …
— You’re telling me, Doctor Bradley, that these … blemishes … this mark I can hardly see, that is your idea of a contusion?
— It appears that way
— It appears that way?
— I mean they appeared that way during the examination
— Very well
— You see – The doctor gazes level and equal at Stefan and goes on despite Stefan’s attempt to interrupt – When I examined the plaintiff the marks were larger than they appear here. There must have been a considerable lapse of time between. That’s the only explanation
Stefan is making unimpressed noises:
— But surely given the amount of trauma you describe, some would still be visible?
— Well … It is
— It is?
— Yes
— Er … – Stefan’s pen is poised over one of the photos of Rebecca – Where? Doctor Bradley?
The doctor holds up a photo of Rebecca’s buttock and says, pointing with a be-ringed finger:
— Here
Stefan theatrically doubletakes:
— Here?
— Yes
— Can we?
The court can. The whole of the court can and is looking closely at Rebecca’s arse and trying to see something.
Stefan half chortles:
— So. You mean this blemish here, the one I just accidentally wrote over with my pen and totally obscured?
— … Yes
— This is the blemish you call a … ‘significant bite mark’ … in your notes?
— … Yes
Wide-eyed, Stefan looks at the doctor, looks at the jury, looks at Patrick’s teeth marks in Rebecca’s left buttock. Then he says:
— I’ve no more questions
But as he sits down the prosecutor jumps up and says:
— Just a few more questions
The doctor sits back; the prosecutor, with his wig and gown and most confident demeanour, is already saying:
— You are a doctor of how many years’ experience, Doctor Bradley?
Shrug, frown, nod:
— Fifteen, maybe sixteen …
— Sixt
een years. And – The prosecutor smiles, seriously – In that time you have examined, roughly, how many rape victims?
— Pff – Doctor Bradley exhales – Mmm, I suppose … – The doctor thinks, thinks more, then seems to agree with her own calculations – At least a hundred, perhaps more
Wig, gown, smile:
— Thank you. Now. In that time, Doctor Bradley, I imagine you must have heard of the adage ‘you can’t thread a moving needle’
A wince from the doctor; then:
— Of course
— Could you explain it?
The doctor nods again:
— Yes. It’s one of the most pernicious rape myths there is. It presumes that if a woman is struggling a man cannot gain penetration. And that if there were a struggle there would have to be a huge amount of bruising to the vagina and labia
Alan Gregory QC:
— And this is, as you say, rubbish?
The doctor snorts:
— Absolute rubbish. Total and utter rubbish
— Right – Gregory glances at the jury, the jury glances back. In the dock Patrick tries to think about lunch – Now, if I may cast your mind back to photos 2a to 2f – The prosecutor turns slightly to the judge – I don’t think there’s any need for the jury to see these again …
The judge nods; the clerk shrugs; the prosecutor goes on:
— I mean these are the same photos of the plaintiff’s face I’m referring to, so …
— It’s OK, I remember – Says the doctor. The prosecutor nods gratefully, then continues:
— Thank you. OK – Lifting his head – Would you say, Doctor, the bruises on the face we saw in those photos, the bite marks and bruises – The words hang in the air – Would you say they were consistent with an … extremely violent sexual encounter?
The silence is heavy. Patrick slips a forefinger between collar and neck; then feels guilty about the guilty-ness of the body language. The words are still resonant in the air as the doctor takes long seconds to decide what to reply. The doctor coughs, then says:
— I would say there is no other explanation. Apart from an … – Patrick blinks, Patrick swallows, the doctor goes on – Extremely violent sexual incident – Patrick stops blinking. The doctor concludes – I would say there is no other explanation for the bruises and other marks in these photos, other than … a … very brutal … – Deep breath – rape
