Without Consent

by Frances Fyfield

  The bathroom to which she tiptoed was splendid. There was a power shower among the black marble tiles and a bidet with gold-coloured taps which she used religiously, especially at times like these, to wash away all traces of him.

  She had no idea how to live outside this house. It was her home and her prison, and living in such a place represented the pinnacle of all achievement. She liked this bathroom best; she had made it her own, and she could hide behind the door after doing her duty as a good Catholic wife. She could also sit and lie here too long in contemplation of avoiding it. Praying to God and occupying the bidet at the same time seemed faintly obscene, but Brigid imagined God would forgive her that, at least, since he demanded so much of her otherwise, and was supposed to forgive a great deal more than her husband. Dedicating the act of sex as a penance for the holy souls also seemed indecent, but might ensure a blessing in advance. Maybe Aemon was right and she should have been a nun.

  You used to love it, he’d said. He said that every time, taunting her. There was a muffled shouting from outside, her name called, ‘Brigid, Brigid … where are you?’ sounding as if he was lost. God help us, he was awake again after insufficient drink to anaesthetize. She touched the lips of her vagina, swollen like cocktail sausages, almost screamed, reached for the lubricant from the cupboard and answered him.

  ‘I’m here, I’m here, in a minute.’

  He hated to wake up and find himself alone. It was an insult to his manhood: it gave him nightmares.

  Aemon and Brigid, happily married.

  In a neat little terraced house, light showed from every window, as if the occupant owned shares in London Electricity, or could not stand the dark. Around three a.m., a solid form could be seen, balanced on a ladder, silhouetted against the window to the left of the door, painting the ceiling of the living room. Anna was in a sweat. The radio played softly only because she was a considerate neighbour. What she really wanted was a house pulsing with vapid, heavy-beat noise, amplified to fill her head. Anything to block thinking and aid the manic activity which had continued since early afternoon.

  Ceiling, two coats, a small area, quickly covered; the whole place a bit of a doll’s house. Walls could be finished in an hour, possibly tomorrow. The washing machine hummed in the kitchen; third load today. Curtains hung damply; she would paint round them. The carpet had already been shampooed. She was doing things out of order, but perfect décor, logically created, was not the object of this exercise. The achievement of cleanliness was.

  The ladder wobbled; Anna clutched, swore, saved herself from falling, and watched the paint tray fall to the floor, face down. Scraping the white ooze from the ruined pile with desultory energy, she realized that bending over made her dizzy and she could not see straight. All that white, glimmering against the unsteady light of the naked bulb which swung from the ceiling; her eyes were no longer able to comprehend colour. Or the fact that there might be someone outside, looking in.

  She might as well paint the carpet, too, and be finished with it; the thought made her smile. All this work had done the trick; she was so tired she could scarcely put one foot in front of the other, and at last the place smelt of nothing but emulsion.

  Anna held one hand in front of her face, watched its tremor, and delivered the now-familiar lecture. You can cope, girl, you can cope; it’s all the rest who can’t. Talking to herself, out loud; that was another thing to be cured, but not yet. The hand trembled; the burn marks on her arms were fading; her legs had the substance of jelly. She could sleep now.

  As Anna tried to ignore the spots in front of her eyes while sticking the paint roller in a bucket of water which suddenly seemed red instead of white, the phone by Superintendent Bailey’s bed bleeped without apology. He did not need to look at his watch to know that it was shortly after three; he always knew the time.

  ‘Bailey. What do you want?’

  It had been a joke on regular squads that Bailey always sounded as if he had a woman with him. Probably had too; the man had been a bachelor a long, long time. Going out and staying in with a lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service was seen as another lascivious eccentricity which went with his good suits. The wearing of the one on his back and the other on his arm bordered on some undefined treachery. The men who claimed to know him longest were placing bets on this marriage. Ten to one, it would not take place at all, five to three it wouldn’t last a year. They had different kinds of faith in Bailey. The existence of Helen West did not exactly do him any favours.

  The voice on the other end of the line appeared to hide an element of amusement. Sometimes, in the comparative regularity of his newish role, Bailey forgot that working for Complaints and Discipline was still, potentially, a twenty-four-hour shift.

  ‘Islington. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve got a problem. Allegation of rape.’

  ‘Against whom?’

  The officer sounded as if he was reciting from a reading primer for under fives, spelling the sounds as he spoke.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Ryan, sir.’

  Bailey paused for a moment’s palpable shock.

  ‘I can’t investigate allegations against Ryan,’ he said. ‘I know him.’

  The voice coughed. ‘That’s the problem, sir. We’ve tried everyone else on the complaints rota, but everyone knows Ryan.’ He paused for effect. ‘Everyone.’

  Bailey knew what he should do if he were going straight by the book. Get up, look up all other available numbers, tell this sergeant who did not yet have a name to continue his exploration down the list, because yes, he knew Ryan. Far too well. Knew him as a man of flawed intelligence, deliberate blindness, sexual fecklessness, indiscretions of all kinds. A man lacking in imagination, dogged in loyalty, but finally, in the last two years, emerging from a chrysalis, abandoning frustrated youth in favour of some degree of wisdom. Bailey had tutored him, forgiven him, covered up for him, believed in him, right up until that recent point where the belief was justified and Ryan had suddenly taken off and learnt to think, wonder, take responsibility and ask real questions. He had grown, shed his juvenile prejudices like unwanted skin, and learnt the art of patience, the way Bailey had always hoped he would. Looking at Ryan as he was was like looking at the man Bailey himself had once been. What retrograde nonsense was this? Stupid, stupid bastard.

  The pause was long enough for the sergeant to cough again. ‘Sir?’

  ‘On my way.’

  Bailey was precise. In the same way that he knew the time, he knew where to find his clothes. Helen stirred, listening. Bailey knew she couldn’t quite fathom his absurd loyalty to Ryan any more than he could himself, and felt a flash of annoyance that the phone call should make him peculiarly, defensively embarrassed, as if she could guess that this was more than his paid duty. He touched her shoulder and left without a word of goodbye. Singing in his head as he went for the car, not Ryan, not Ryan, please. Not just as he was making good. Not Ryan and rape.

  With that good-looking boy there would never be the need.

  Bailey made himself drive slowly, although the instinct was to race and the sheer emptiness of the streets was an invitation to speed. Emptiness was a relative concept in London. There were always people. In these Godforsaken early hours there were simply fewer, plying the night-time trades, some of them innocent, some not. The factory making dresses for tomorrow’s market, the loading of goods, the post-midnight clearing out, the parties which never stopped and the increasing numbers of those sleeping rough. He regretted that his duties no longer really included this twilight zone of all-night pit stops: conspiracy, danger, chat, street light. The night isolated people, made them more truthful. You poor old man, he thought to himself ruefully, they’ll make a gardener of you yet. Set you to trimming roses in distant suburban police stations, or polishing the commander’s shoes. Instead of this loathsome business of pruning, examining the varied complaints against officers of his own kind.

  Oh, surely this was a storm in a nightclub cocktail? He knew in hi
s bones it was not. Ryan, you bloody fool. What now? You always had a weakness for women and they for you. Bailey found he was thinking of the girl with something akin to dislike, already formulating disbelief in what she would say. He shook his head. This would not do.

  The back of the station yard was lit with orange light as if to reduce the white paint of the cars to a sickly cream. Bailey went to the back door. Better than going to the front and possibly running the phalanx of waiting relatives, supposing there were any. The interior corridor was a similar warm and oppressive yellow. He was met with the distant courtesy his role demanded. Everyone knew Ryan, a convivial and popular character, while several more knew Bailey, who could not be thus described. No chance, Bailey thought, of an incident like this failing to enter the history books.

  The duty inspector was embarrassed, a symptom rarely apparent on ruddy red features such as his, unless he was talking about his daughters with the boastful and nervous pride he reserved for their achievements. The existence of a family made wild men tame, gave them different perspectives; it had done that for Ryan, albeit slowly. However many years he had taken to fall into respectful love with his own wife, he had still done so, although only after he had led her a merry dance, and she him. Boys will be boys, and girls retaliate. The rape story was told, dispassionately, the voice avoiding judgement.

  ‘Decent enough girl. No record, works in a shop. She knows Ryan on account of being a witness in one of his cases. Seems like she went to a disco with a girl who got into some kind of trouble on the way home, and she’s giving evidence about what time they got there, what time the girl left, that kind of thing. Anyway, Ryan takes the statement and they get along fine, and he goes back to tidy it up, and they still get along fine. Then, according to her, he meets her for a third time, purely social. He starts to pester her. She lives with a bloke. She and Ryan – Shelley Pelmore she’s called, sir – go out for a drink. On the way home, he suggests a walk in the park and he rapes her. Or, at least, he tries. Penetration, but no ejaculation.’ The inspector coughed apologetically. Another source of ridicule for Ryan. Didn’t even make it, poor bastard; couldn’t keep it up.

  ‘Obvious signs of resistance. Sir.’

  The police service was an army with a self-appointed officer class, so Bailey understood. Respect had to be earned and in the eyes of this man, he had not earned it yet.

  ‘Now why on earth would he do that?’ Bailey wondered out loud, making light of it. The inspector caught his drift, laughed briefly.

  ‘See what you mean, sir. Usually he only has to ask nicely, although everyone says he’s quietened down. But then why do politicians go with tarts, even when they’ve got groupies and their fragrant wives at home, sir? Dicing with death, someone’s idea of fun.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’ Bailey tried to get the plea out of his voice. The cough was repeated.

  ‘Can’t say, sir, can I? I haven’t met her, wouldn’t know if I did. They were seen together in the pub. He says they met by accident, chatted, that was all, gave her a lift, went separate ways.’

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘The boyfriend. Found her on the doorstep. Brought her in. She’s in the rape suite up at Holloway. We can’t deal with her here for obvious reasons. Ryan’s in the detention room.’

  ‘Well, come with me, will you? I can’t see him alone.’

  Another long hesitation.

  ‘Oh, one more thing, sir. When she came in, she was wearing Ryan’s jacket…’

  He would need a witness to ensure fair play – no hidden intimacies between himself and an old pal – and also because he needed someone to stiffen his own backbone when he saw Ryan. Bailey might as well have been looking at the victim of a car smash, one who was resigned to being told that apart from being blind for life, the legs would have to be removed as well. Ryan’s handsome face was puffed; he had not avoided the disgrace of weeping, which had made his eyes red and his skin blotched as if it was bruised. There was a smell of drink, not overpowering but noticeable, and the different, overlying smell of perspiration and soap. He sat on the bench in his shirtsleeves above creased cotton trousers. On their entrance, he placed his hands behind his back, guiltily. Bailey had the distinct impression that he had been biting his nails. He swung round on the other officer, almost falling into him.

  ‘Has he had a shower?’

  ‘Sir, yes. At home, before we collected him.’

  Ryan’s face had opened into the beginnings of a smile before Bailey spoke. Then it closed into sullen lines and he turned his eyes to a long examination of his hands. Nails bitten to the quick, Bailey noticed. In as long as he had known the man, Ryan had never bitten his nails. Not even in the long reaches of the night, when nerves turned men into anxious boys.

  ‘Has he been examined?’

  ‘Not yet, sir …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, that should have been first.’

  Bailey swung on Ryan with the anger of a parent trying to prevent himself from slapping a child out of sheer disappointment.

  ‘What have you got to say?’ Bailey barked at him.

  Ryan shifted. His voice was surprisingly firm.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.’

  And he turned his head to the wall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘… if at a trial for a rape offence, the jury has to consider whether a man believed that a woman was consenting to sexual intercourse, the presence or absence of reasonable grounds for such a belief is a matter to which the jury is to have regard, in conjunction with other relevant matters, in considering whether he so believed…’

  Rose Darvey measured the distance, sprinted up to the empty cardboard box and kicked it. It sailed upward and hit the casing of the neon light with a satisfying crack, bounced off the wall and landed. Inspired by the length of the corridor and its dull grey paint, she repeated the kick from the other side, watching as the box hit the casing for a second time. That should do.

  ‘Yeah!’ Rose shouted, waving her fist. Who said football training was no use to a girl? ‘Punch their lights out,’ she muttered. Dribbling the box before her, she made for the swing doors. She had to do something – anything, as long as it was overtly physical – before a day in court; frustration was the price of dedication to a career which involved so much enforced immobility. Perhaps she should have gone in for politics. That, at least, allowed a person to shout. In the life of Rose Darvey, Helen West had much to answer for.

  Redwood, self-important yet timid Branch Crown Prosecutor, master of this flagship, came out of his office with the speed of a startled guinea pig. Rose beamed at him with the usual unnerving effect. Rose Darvey and Helen West were clones of each other, he thought fearfully, the pair of them separated only by a decade and a half in which Helen had learnt alternative methods of insubordination. Helen could smile just as sweetly as Rose, but relied on guile, abuse of dignity and dumb insolence, while this one, who could have been her daughter, played her games with more palpable falsehood. She shimmered with energy, like a fighter hanging on the ropes, impervious to the strictures of a referee, waiting for the chance to punch a kidney.

  ‘Lovely day,’ said Rose.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ he said faintly, noting the crack in the neon light which everyone hated, wanting to say something about it, but not daring.

  ‘You’re in early, sir,’ Rose chirped with a terrible display of politeness, her smile reminiscent of a small animal baring its teeth. She could make ‘sir’ sound like an exquisite insult, no offence intended.

  ‘Yes.’ He felt himself beaming in response; fat old cat. Redwood was always in limbo; once he started a conversation, he did not know how to stop, but stood there, hovering. Rose knew that one sure way to make him move was to pick her nose, an action which, understandably, sent him running for cover. At the moment, she had other things in mind.

  ‘Why are we turning down so many rape cases, sir?’

  He rocked on his heels, felt for the wall to give him suppor
t. The suddenness of the question jolted him into an untypically truthful response.

  ‘Because they don’t work.’

  ‘Pardon? Don’t work? That ain’t no legal phrase I ever heard of.’

  ‘They don’t work,’ he repeated.

  ‘Don’t work for who? The fucking Treasury?’

  Redwood fled. The corridor fell into silence.

  From the distant end, Helen West hoved into view, coming closer beneath the subterranean lights, three of which Rose had managed to damage. She looked good today, Rose remarked to herself: loose jacket; nice skirt, fitting like a dream; good legs. No wonder that dour old scroat Bailey liked her. She wasn’t bad for an old lady.

  The cardboard box landed at Helen’s feet. Lacking the benefit of football training, she picked it up without a second glance and put it over her head. Rose whistled and prayed for Redwood to come back out of his office. Two demented women would keep him demoralized for a week.

  It was cool in here, air-conditioned freezing. Helen continued up the corridor, blind as a bat, and turned left into her room without breaking step. Some day, Rose thought, without wistfulness, all this will never be mine.

  She was one third of the way through legal training, and so far she had found the exams a breeze. She could count on her fingers a fistful of achievements, namely, the beginnings of an impressive qualification, a borrowed family and a man she was going to marry in a matter of weeks. The career posed several questions and many more doubts; the marriage did not. Rose scurried down the corridor, looking out for signs of her own vandalism. Now they really would have to replace the fucking lights which drove everyone mad, but then, if the establishment refused to listen to intelligent requests, they had to be otherwise persuaded.

  The office of the Crown Prosecution Service, north central, lay at the apex of several insignificant streets and was not itself a landmark. Facing Helen West’s small room over a narrow stretch of road, there was another set of offices, with remarkably better equipment and a plethora of underworked employees. Helen had suggested rigging up a pulley over the road so that they could send over photocopying, or receive, in recycled carrier bags secured with clothes pegs, the day’s faxes. Over the road, the people were engaged in the long-distance management of a paint production company; their office was light, bright and far from grey. Over here, the office fixtures bore signs of wear, redolent of a surly atmosphere and an environment devoted to the creation of nothing but hierarchies. The pursuit of justice was an unprofitable sideline.