by Hannah Howe
“Why fruit and nut; why not just chocolate?” I probed. Sometimes, I ask the most ridiculous questions.
“One of my five a day; you know, one of my five portions of fruit and veg.”
“Fruit and nut chocolate?” I frowned. My fault, ask a daft question, get a stupid answer. “I don’t think so, Mac.”
“Actually, Missy,” Mac paused as though on the verge of a sensational breakthrough: Galileo on the brink of a great discovery. “As you quite accurately state, this is fruit and nut; so two of my five a day.”
Five minutes later, Alan and Vittoria strolled from the beach, their hands cupped, clasping shells and pebbles. Alan allowed Vittoria to walk ahead with Mac then he paused and said to me, “Maybe tomorrow.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alan rejigged his schedule, freed up time in the afternoon to call on Vittoria.
We were in the living room. It was dark outside; the wind howled, scattered the mayflower, bent the branches, shook the leaves on the trees. Rolling in with the tide, grey clouds gathered above us, offered icy rain, made seaside ice creams redundant, ensured the prospect of a deserted beach; goodbye regular weather patterns and consistent seasons, hello global warming.
From his position in the armchair, Alan asked, “How’s the bracelet coming on?”
Vittoria glanced at the shells, which she’d clumped on a tray, forming a small mountain. “I haven’t had time to do it yet.”
Alan nodded. “Read any of the books?” he asked.
“I started this one,” Vittoria picked up Hierarchy of Needs by Abraham Maslow, “but I can’t concentrate.”
Again, Alan nodded. He lapsed into silence; he allowed Vittoria time to gather her thoughts. Then he undid a button on his jacket – he’d called on Vittoria straight from work – adjusted his tie and leaned forward. He still allowed Vittoria plenty of time and space; however, I could tell from the earnest look on his face that he felt that Vittoria was ready to answer some probing questions.
“Where do you see yourself in ten years time, Vittoria?” Alan asked.
She thought for a moment then replied, “As a child psychologist with my own practice.”
“And how will you achieve that aim?”
She glanced at the textbooks. “By studying and passing exams.”
“And marriage?” Alan probed.
Vittoria turned away. She stared at the wall and shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Children?”
“Maybe.”
“With V.J. Parks?”
Now she turned to face Alan, though after brief eye contact, she gazed at the ground, her face in shadow. “Maybe.”
“Do you love him?”
“I do,” she replied in a small voice.
“Does he love you?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“Does his profession bother you?”
Again, Vittoria paused. She glanced at Mac and shrugged. “I’ve always been around hard men and violence. My father’s a hard man.”
“And violent?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“Towards you?”
“No, never towards me.” She shook her head decisively.
Alan paused. He leaned back. He viewed Vittoria through soft, compassionate eyes. He offered her a gentle smile. “You’re very attractive, Vittoria.”
She swallowed then said, “Thank you.”
“You must attract many male admirers.”
She turned away, offered a shoulder. “A few.”
“How does V.J. feel about that?”
She pulled a face, pursed her lips. “He can become jealous, over-protective.”
“And when V.J. isn’t around?”
“I can look after myself.” Vittoria reached for the cushion. She squeezed the cushion and her knuckles shone bright. A tear ran down her cheek.
“How do you look after yourself?” Alan asked gently.
“I tell them to clear off.”
“And if they don’t listen?”
Vittoria scowled. “I remind them that I’m a Vanzetti.”
“And if that doesn’t impress them?”
She shrugged. “I just say that I’m not interested.”
“And if they won’t take no for an answer?”
“I push them away.”
“And if they’re insistent?”
“I...” Vittoria paused. She buried her face in the cushion. As we looked on, our faces troubled, our minds racing, she sobbed uncontrollably. “I’ve disgraced my family...I’ve brought shame and dishonour to my family.”
Alan moved a hand to his mouth. He crooked an index finger, placed it above his upper lip. As he looked on, time stood still. He offered the impression that time was immaterial, an infinite quality.
After Vittoria’s sobs had subsided, he asked, “How have you disgraced your family, Vittoria?” A long silence ensued.
“Have you killed someone?”
Vittoria sniffed, fought back tears. She shook her head.
“Stolen from someone?”
“No,” she said.
“Betrayed someone?”
“No.”
Alan nodded. He leaned forward, dropped his hand from his mouth. He placed his hands together, rested his arms of his thighs. In a soothing voice, he said, “You haven’t disgraced anyone, Vittoria. You haven’t brought shame or dishonour to your family.”
Vittoria dried her eyes on the cushion. She nodded, an automatic gesture, which lacked conviction or belief. Clearly, doubts, guilt, shame remained and troubled her mind.
“What happened when you told him to go away?” Alan asked.
“He pushed me.”
“And then?”
“He laughed at me.”
“And then?”
“He beat me until I nearly lost consciousness.”
“And then?” Alan asked.
“He raped me,” Vittoria cried.
“Who raped you, Vittoria?”
“Grant Osborne.” Through her tears, she strangled the cushion. Through her pain, she cried, “Grant Osborne raped me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Time stood still. Seconds drifted into minutes, minutes drifted into eternity. Alan was still sitting on the armchair, though he’d removed his jacket; Mac was standing by the door, his face grim, his fists curled in anger; while I was standing by the window, thinking: Osborne cannot get away with this; somehow, we had to find a route to justice.
However, Alan’s concern was for Vittoria. When she’d used up all her tears, he asked, “How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“What would you like to do?”
She blinked then rubbed her eyes. Her eyes were red and puffy, while the tracks of her tears remained as scars on her face, scars embedded into her very being, scars that would require love and understanding, scars that would take time to heal.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone troubled, confused.
“Do you want to inform the police?”
“No.” She shook her head then explained, “I’m a Vanzetti.”
Alan said, “There are good police officers who would see beyond that fact.”
“I’m a woman,” Vittoria sighed.
“And justice is a male domain.”
She nodded, “Where rape is concerned, yes.”
Alan paused to take a phone call from Marcia, his secretary. He leaned into his mobile phone, listened in silence for a good thirty seconds then said, “Schedule the meeting for tomorrow. No more calls this afternoon.” Marcia replied then after a polite, “Okay,” Alan hung up.
With his attention centred on Vittoria, he asked, “What would you consider justice?”
She frowned then rubbed her eyes again. “I don’t understand.”
“If Grant Osborne walked into this room now...”
She scowled then strangled the cushion. “I’d kill him.”
“Would you?” Alan asked, his tone even, friendly, enquiring.
&n
bsp; “No,” Vittoria replied, her fingers releasing the cushion, her head sagging into her chest, her body leaning back, “no I wouldn’t.”
“What if your father killed him?”
“When he finds out,” Vittoria said, “he will.”
“Would that serve as justice?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged then placed her hands to her head. She rubbed her temples in weary fashion. “I can’t think.”
“Maybe you should rest now,” Alan suggested.
“Yes,” Vittoria nodded, “I’ll rest.”
While Mac escorted Vittoria to her bedroom, Alan and I wandered on to the sand dunes.
The recent rain had dampened the sand, made conditions firmer under foot. We followed a trail that wandered through the dunes, one of the many golden veins that cut through the greenery, to the artery of the beach and a large body of jagged rocks. We paused by the rocks, to listen to the seagulls squawking, the children screaming and the tide rolling gently on to the shore.
Within the bay, children explored the rock pools, dipped their nets, dragged out seaweed; while on the sea windsurfers glided past, steered a course away from the occasional small boat. Across the bay, the houses winked at us as sunlight reflected off their windows. In the distance, the rocky cliffs and tree-lined hills reminded me that Glamorgan was a county to kill for, a region of great beauty, a place that brimmed with history and modern pride.
Alone, in our quiet corner, I turned to Alan and said, “So Osborne raped Vittoria. Do you believe her?”
“Do you believe her?” Alan asked bouncing the question back to me.
“I’m a woman; my instincts tell me that she’s telling the truth.”
He nodded. “I’m a psychologist and my instincts tell me that she’s telling the truth.”
I reflected that close on a hundred years ago a local physician, Dr Hartland, had stood on this beach and dispensed spring water from an open-air spa. Now, I stood on the beach and listened to my special doctor as he dispensed words of wisdom.
“When did you suspect?” I asked.
“The first time I saw her. The self-harm, the self-mutilation, the feelings of guilt, a withdrawal into the self, away from other people, are all classic signs displayed by the victim.”
I nodded. I guess I’d had my suspicions, though they’d been vague and unfocused. It’s always tempting to jump to conclusions, to bend the facts to fit your theory, but I’d learned from experience that speculation could be dangerous, that conjecture could lead to your downfall.
“What are you going to do?” Alan asked as we moved into shadow, as a dark grey cloud obscured the sun.
“I’ll have to inform Vanzetti.”
“He’ll want revenge.”
I nodded. “We’ll have to talk about that.”
We walked on, ignoring the beachcombers and pleasure seekers. In truth, it was still early in the season so they were light in number. Also, the changeable weather did not help, the clouds casting shadows over sunbathing plans.
“I want justice for Vittoria,” I said as we returned to the sand dunes.
“The crime can’t be undone; how can you obtain justice?”
I paused atop a sand dune and gazed out to sea. The answer was simple: report the crime and allow the justice system to operate. However, we had the obstacle of Vittoria’s resistance, of her family connections and of the justice system’s patchy record on crime in general and on rape in particular. We would have to forge our own sword of justice, maybe on the anvil of hell.
“My concern is for Vittoria’s wellbeing,” Alan said.
“You’ll talk with her again, this afternoon?”
“I’ll stay with her. We’ll talk if she wants to. I’ll arrange medical care and ask my contacts about long-term psychological support; Vittoria needs specialist counselling from experts who support rape victims.”
“I don’t look up to many people,” I said, smiling at Alan, turning my back on the breeze, running my fingers through my hair; “I don’t believe in idolatry, but you’re my hero, do you know that?”
Alan returned my smile. Then he shook his head and said, “I’m no hero. Victims who overcome trauma, and emerge as better people; they are the heroes; they are the ones who deserve our admiration and respect.”
Chapter Twenty
From Newton, I drove to St Donats. For a good fifteen minutes, I sat in my Mini: how could I inform Vanzetti; how could I break the news about the rape? Understandably, he’d be upset, angry. I feared that he might take his anger out on me, the messenger, then concluded that there was no easy way to tell him; I’d have to walk in there and report the facts.
At Vanzetti’s portcullis of a gate, I spoke into the intercom and he granted me access. I walked up the drive, past a bottle-green Bentley, to Vanzetti’s ornate front door.
I found Vanzetti in the gold living room, alongside Catrin, V.J. Parks and Sherri. All looked on with earnest expressions, all sensed that I brought devastating news.
“First,” I said, “Vittoria is safe and coming to terms with her situation. Alan has talked with her and they will talk again this afternoon. He will also arrange long-term support.”
“Situation?” Vanzetti growled. “Support?” He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I took a deep breath and said, “Grant Osborne raped Vittoria.”
My eyes wandered around the room as I gauged their reactions. V.J. Parks curled his left hand into a fist, released a primeval groan then thumped the sofa, hard. Sherri looked stunned. She sniffed then started to cry. Catrin, a woman who wouldn’t cry easily, also shed tears. Meanwhile, Vincent Vanzetti turned purple as he boiled with rage.
“Osborne’s dead,” Vanzetti said.
“You intend to kill him?” I asked.
“Personally.”
I nodded, then said, “We’ve discussed this with Vittoria; I don’t think Osborne’s murder would make her feel any better.”
“It would make me feel better,” Vanzetti said. He walked over to the cocktail cabinet. There, he splashed four fingers of whisky into a glass. His hand shook as he poured the whisky; tears welled in his eyes as he gulped the drink.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “And I understand your anger. But maybe Vittoria’s feelings should come first?”
“Then what do you suggest?” Vanzetti yelled. “The police?”
I shook my head then shrugged. “Vittoria doesn’t want that either.”
“Then it’s up to me,” Vanzetti insisted. With a steadier hand, he refilled his glass. “I’m the head of this family. It’s up to me to sort this out.”
Catrin stood. She walked over to Vanzetti. At the cocktail cabinet, she offered the whisky a longing gaze, shook her head, then placed a hand on her ex-husband’s arm. “You can’t, Vince; it wouldn’t solve anything.”
“How can you say that?” Vanzetti asked, brushing Catrin aside. “The bastard raped our daughter.”
“And I feel as though he’s raped me,” Catrin cried. With a swift, irritated gesture, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “But we must discuss this as a family, like we’ve discussed crises in the past.”
Catrin took hold of Vanzetti’s left hand. She led him to a sofa, where they sat, side by side. While Catrin’s fingers traced small circles on the back of Vanzetti’s hand, Sherri looked on, her eyes wide, bright, her cheeks streaked with tears. Meanwhile, V.J. stared into the middle distance, his expression grim, his fists clenched, a look of determination and revenge glinting in his eyes.
While Vanzetti and Catrin comforted each other, I turned to the boxer and asked, “Are you okay, V.J.?”
“I’m gonna kill him,” V.J. said. He released his emotion by thumping the sofa; the sofa’s frame cracked upon receiving the punch.
“Join the queue,” I said. “But we must find another solution.”
“There is no other solution,” Vanzetti insisted. “Can you think of one?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t. Ther
efore, with reluctance, I shook my head. “No,” I said.
“So,” Vanzetti glowered, “the man’s dead.”
“The police would know where to point the finger,” I said.
“How?” Vanzetti asked. “They don’t know about the rape.”
That was true. However, I said, “You can’t murder him.”
Vanzetti stood. He walked over and glared at me. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m on Vittoria’s side. I want justice for Vittoria.”
“Well, believe me,” he said, “justice in this case comes from the barrel of a gun.”
Vanzetti was entitled to his rage, his anger. Indeed, I wanted to confront Osborne with my gun. However, I couldn’t condone murder. Despite the atmosphere in the room, the raw emotion, I couldn’t allow Vanzetti to shoot Osborne in the name of revenge; yet, I knew that none of us would rest until justice was done.
“You talk,” I said, “express your feelings, your rage, your anger, your upset. Support each other, but no violence yet; wait until I’ve talked with Osborne.”
“And what good will that do?” Vanzetti scowled.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But someone must confront him; he must understand that we know the truth.”
“And then?”
“We’ll do what needs to be done.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sleep was a stranger that night as I searched for a solution to the problem. Maybe, with Alan’s help, I could persuade Vittoria to report the rape to the police. Maybe we’d find a sympathetic officer who would overlook the fact that Vittoria was a Vanzetti, daughter of public enemy number one. Then what? Maybe the police would arrest Osborne. Then a trial, which could go either way, because I felt sure that Osborne was well connected. Vittoria would have to endure that ordeal with no guarantee of justice at the end.
Vanzetti could confront Osborne and shoot him; that would solve one problem, but create another. Claiming a life in revenge for a barbaric act, did that equate to justice? The thought of Osborne walking free cut me to the quick, and I knew that whatever happened, I couldn’t stand by and allow that. My thoughts went round in circles and provided no answer. At dawn, I climbed out of bed exhausted, but determined to tackle my task.
